


The Dove's Long Journey to Champaign

by violue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bottom Dean, Depression, Frottage, M/M, Mention of a Hate Crime, Past Castiel/Other(s), Past Character Death, Past Suicide Attempt, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, THERE IS NO VOLLEYBALL IN THIS FEATURE, Top Castiel, aimless emotional hurt/comfort, past Dean Winchester/Lisa, past Sam Winchester/Ruby - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: After four years of solitude on a remote island, Dean’s been through hell. But he’s home, he’s healing, and he has a very special gift for a man he’s never met. (Basically this is an AU of the movie Cast Away that takes place after the island.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Notes? Yeah, I've got fucking notes.
> 
> 1.) A big thank you to Dani, Kris, and Lydie for beta'ing this story at one of more of its various stages. Major thanks to Lydie, who really helped me make this into something I was willing to post. 
> 
> 2.) I always feel like I have to warn people about the aimless/mundane nature of my stories. This is a story about Dean dealing with some baggage, that's kind of it, I hope that's cool with you. This was another stressful one to write, because I kept looking at and feeling like "this isn't enough, this isn't going to grab anyone" and not knowing how to make it better while still keeping to my premise. 
> 
> 3.) This was obviously inspired by the movie Cast Away. I was watching it on TV one night, and, as I often do, I started thinking "but what would this be like as a Destiel AU?". I was more drawn to the end of the movie, the fact that we never get to see the inside of the damn package. I wanted to know what was inside, so I created a story about that. 
> 
> 4.) This fic was illustrated by the talented and friendly Nikavarta, go [here](http://nikavarta.tumblr.com/post/153373843317/for-dcbb2016-art-for-violues-lovely-story-the) to reblog her art post! !!

Here’s the thing about humans. The bulk of them want to survive, and in a fight or flight moment, they’ll do anything to _live_. Throw them into the ocean in an Airbus A300 with darkness, thunder, and lightning all around them, they’ll do what they can to keep breathing. They’ll flail about in the ocean, fighting against debris, fighting against water, fighting for a glimpse of that bright yellow life raft they _know_ is out there somewhere. They’ll cling to it for dear life, and when they wash up on an uninhabited island with nothing but plane debris, unopened FedEx packages, and a waterlogged corpse to keep them company, they’ll keep going for as long as they can. They’ll keep going until their body gives in or their mind gives up.

Dean didn’t even work for FedEx, Gordon did. Gordon thought it was time for Dean to get over his fear of flying through the magic of exposure, Dean needed a break and agreed, so Dean got to see Thailand without paying for travel expenses. On the flight home, Dean’s plane crashed, Gordon drowned, and Dean ended up alone on an island with the body of their pilot, and a life raft with a massive tear that Dean had no way of patching.

Dean kept going for a long time on that island. He made fire with tricks barely remembered from his time as an Eagle Scout, he foraged for food with tips barely remembered from his father, he built a damn lean-to, cultivated a hovel in a cave, got better at climbing trees. He learned to live without toilet paper, learned to cope with his own terrible breath. He learned to stop judging himself for crying, for talking to himself, for the days he wanted to die, for the days he tried to die, survival instincts be damned. He learned to love and loathe the sound of his own voice in equal measure.

Years passed.

Years of bland and gristly sea creatures to eat, years of thirst barely quenched by coconut or rain water, years of trimming his nails with his own teeth so they’d stop getting in the way, years of wearing scraps of fabric that used to be his clothing, and scraps that used to be boxed up in packages waiting to go somewhere; some place other than Thailand where they started, Wichita where Dean was headed, and the god-forsaken island where they ended up.

There were hundreds of packages on the plane, but only fourteen of them ended up with Dean on the island. Several were useless; divorce papers that would never get delivered, obliterated champagne glasses that probably wouldn’t have survived their trip to the states anyway, an MP3 player. Some things had their uses, though. The ice skates proved invaluable. The white terrycloth robe got filthy beyond belief in a short time, but it provided Dean with comfort. The chessboard… the chessboard was something to futz with, but Dean had never learned to play chess. He played against himself with made up rules, which was entertaining, but he often wondered if it was fast-tracking his emotional and mental deterioration.

Dean loved those chess pieces though. They all had names. Rook Henry, Knight Pamela, Pawn Jenna. His favorite was Bishop Virgil, because he always thought Virgil was a funny name when he was a kid. They had names, and they had personalities. They were his friends, even.

And yet, he abandoned them. Left them on the island the day fate shined a light on him and sent him a rescue in the form of a Thai fishing boat with a broken navigation system.

The only thing he’d remembered to grab was the one package he never opened, the one going from Thailand to Illinois, to Castiel Novak.

He’d left Queen Donna and King Adam behind, but he’d grabbed that package.

Dean left his home and his friends behind, and got on a rickety fishing boat that took days to get back to where it was supposed to be. Not one of the men on that boat spoke English, either. They were just good, hard working men that knew when you found a malnourished man in a dingy taffeta loincloth on an uninhabited island, you took him _off_ the island.

Dean got back to Thailand, got to an embassy, got to someone that spoke his language, and eventually he got home.

Home, a world where his father had died in a car crash in Dean’s absence, his brother had married and already gotten divorced, and Dean’s fiance had moved on and had a baby with someone else.

A lot can happen in what they say was four years, but to Dean, felt a lot more like forty.

But the return was weeks ago. Dean’s had time to “adjust”, see doctors, dentists, psychologists, family, friends, his devastated ex-fiance, the whole nine yards. He’s had time to start getting used to things like salt and toothpaste and ice cubes and blankets, he’s had time to get used to _noise,_ and voices other than his own.

Well, that’s what he tells people, anyway.

He’s not really sure how much he’s actually getting used to anything at all.

  


 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

(Wednesday)

((Nine weeks post-rescue))

 

 

“So, Illinois,” Dr. Henriksen says, tapping his pen against his notebook. Some of the shrinks Dean’s talked to in the past months have been very digital, typing notes up as they go, but Henriksen keeps it more old school. Dean likes that.

“Illinois,” Dean repeats. “It’s less than a day away.”

“You haven’t driven much since you came back, this is a big step.”

“Not driving, taking the bus. My license expired, and the road is so… it’s real busy, you know? Not really ready for that even if I _could_ do it legally.”

“Are you taking Sam with you?”

Dean shakes his head, staring down at his feet. Henriksen makes a lot of eye contact, but eye contact is a tough one for Dean, unless he’s talking to Sam. For four years, most of the eyes Dean looked into belonged to crabs. “Sammy wants to come, but I need a bit of a break from that _hovering_ thing he does, and he’s missed a ton of work already. I’ll only be gone for two days, he’s mostly cool with it. He already gave me some money for the trip. I still don’t have much.” Dean’s been doing odd jobs he finds on Craigslist, but he hasn’t actually looked for gainful employment. Later. After Illinois. Probably not for a while, though.

“What’s in Illinois, Dean?”

“Package delivery.”

Henriksen usually has a pretty passive albeit friendly expression, but at this he leans forward in his chair, eyes keen. “ _The_ package.”

“Yeah, I know you suggested sending it on its way, but part of me always wanted to deliver it myself, you know? Kinda want to see what’s inside, and… in a weird way, I guess I want to meet Castiel.”

“Why’s that?”

When this first started, Dean had trouble saying anything. It’s a bit easier now, he’s getting more comfortable with the idea that here he can share things he might not feel comfortable having friends or family know. But it’s still a work in progress, which is why instead of telling Henriksen the truth, Dean says, “To see it through to the end, I guess.” It’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth.

“Was the package one of your… friends?” Henriksen is generally good at what he does, but man he is _not_ great with addressing the chessboard thing. He comes off awkward and coddling, like maybe if he says it the wrong way, Dean’s going to start screaming and pulling his hair out.

“No, man, it wasn’t. It was just… a package. It didn’t have a name or a personality or anything.” Dean frowns when Henriksen’s pen starts moving. “Not that the chess pieces had personalities. I mean I know they didn’t.” Bishop Virgil wasn’t _actually_ a total stickler for rules, Dean knows that. What was real to him on the island isn’t real outside the island.

The pen moves a little faster. “But it’s been with you a long time.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with giving it up?”

“I think so.”

“Well, it’s movement. That’s good. More importantly, it’s movement spurred by your own decisions, so that’s _great_.”

Dean knows they’re not supposed to be, but the “atta boy” things he receives in therapy always feel patronizing somehow.

_Good job going a whole day without crying, Dean._

_Good job having a five minute conversation with your brother, Dean._

_Good job getting closer to normal, Dean._

He’s not going to mention that to Henriksen, though. He told the last shrink that, and it made their sessions really fucking awkward. He could always sense the giant pause in Dr. Tran’s sentence, where she obviously wanted to congratulate Dean on making eye contact or something.

“Yeah, uh… it’ll be good to get out of the house, I guess.” And by house, Dean supposes he means the tent he’s been sleeping in out in Sam’s sad, dinky backyard, because sleeping indoors is fucking impossible unless Dean’s really, really tired. Luckily, Sam’s landlord is being a good sport about it.

Henriksen doesn’t know Dean sleeps outside. There’s a lot Dean hasn’t shared, really. When he first came back from Thailand Dean's feelings came out in a tidal wave, years of angst and confusion and emotional deterioration pouring out of him ceaselessly and _that_ got him an eleven day stay in a psych ward, pumped full of drugs his malnourished body could barely handle.

Since then he’s learned to work the system a bit. He shares things he’s worried about, shares progress, but he doesn’t talk about a lot of the things he knows aren’t “normal”. Nightmares about the plane crash that he never had until he _left_ the island, sleeping in the backyard, the way the smell of seafood makes him queasy and homesick at the same time.

It’s not like he keeps _everything_ to himself, he told Henriksen about the damn chess pieces, after all.

“Do you want a refill, for the bus ride?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve still got a bunch left.” Dean’s got a whole grab bag of as-needed sedatives and anxiety medication, but he saves them for the days when he’s really freaking the fuck out. Like three days ago, when he had some sort of massive crying fit over how many pairs of socks he has now. Or a month ago, when he saw Sam playing computer chess and couldn’t stop sobbing. “It’s gonna be fine, I’ll be gone and back in plenty of time for my next appointment.” Dean’s doing appointments on Mondays and Wednesdays for now, although last month he was scheduled four days a week. Monday through Thursday, with Fridays reserved for shit like trips to the regular doctor and an expensive dentist that magicked Dean’s mouth for free, under the condition that she could have close-ups of Dean’s teeth as before and after posters at her practice. Humiliating, but worth it; Dean’s teeth look fucking amazing.

Henriksen smiles. “You’ve been very good about keeping your appointments this month, another good sign of progress.”

_Atta boy, Dean, you didn’t skip out on your therapy and lock yourself in Sam’s bathroom._

“Thanks. Uh, looks like it’s pretty close to time to go, what do you say we call it a day?”

Henriksen glances at the clock that clearly shows they have fourteen minutes left, then back at Dean. “Good luck with your trip, Dean. Remember this office has an after hours line if you need anything, no matter what time of day.”

“Yeah, man, I remember. Thanks.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

(Thursday)

  


  


“If you’d wait for the weekend I could go with you, you know.”

Sam’s all dressed up for work, shoulder bag at the ready. He works in IT for some fancy engineering firm, which is wild because when Dean left for Thailand, Sam was a lawyer. Back then, Sam was dating a firecracker named Ruby, he was working for an up and coming law firm here in Wichita, and every single suit he wore cost more than Dean's entire wardrobe put together. Then Dean comes home four years later, Sam's already married and divorced Ruby, he's quit practicing law, and he’s traded in the expensive suits for khakis and a polo shirt so yellow sometimes Dean can’t look directly at it.

The weirdest thing is he seems way happier now, helping people in the company fix their computers or whatever, and doing something called LARPing two weekends a month.

When Dean asked what happened, Sam had said “I don’t know, man… I guess I wasn’t cut out for that life.”

“Dean?”

Dean shakes his head, looking over at Sam. He loses focus a lot. “It’s fine, Sammy, really. Besides, aren’t you doing your role play thing this weekend?”

“Yeah.” Sam keeps inviting Dean to come along, but Dean’s hold on reality is just a bit too tenuous for something like dressing up as a warrior and pretending to battle a medieval magician in the park or whatever it is Sam does. “This is more important, though, so if—”

“I promise it’s going to be fine, Sam.”

Sam fidgets with the strap on his shoulder bag, pouting slightly and looking like he’s sixteen instead of thirty. “I just don’t want a repeat of the library.”

The library incident had been a little over a month ago. Dean had been back among civilization for six weeks, out of the psych ward for two, and he was feeling ambitious, like he was ready to maybe be around people again. So, he’d gone to the library to browse magazines and see what kind of shit he’d missed in four years of island hiatus. Then a group of chatty teenagers sat near his table, talking at a volume much too loud for a library and working Dean’s nerves into dust until he snapped and started yelling at them.

“It’s fine, Henriksen and I have talked a lot about… uh, you know… how to not start screaming at people for making too much noise.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And I have the phone you gave me, with you right at the top of my contact list.” Although there’s only three other people on that list.

“I _know,_ but—”

“And I have a pouch full of sedatives in case I get aggravated.”

“Dean, this—”

“ _And,_ I’m thirty-four years old and would love to go out and do something unsupervised, thanks.”

Sam sighs. “Call me when you get to Illinois,” he says, rolling his eyes when Dean salutes him.

  


  


*

  


 

Dean’s sitting on the couch, staring at the battered and filthy package resting on top of his packed duffel bag. It’s faded in places, scratched and bent in others, and there’s a few drops of blood on the side from the day Dean opened the package that had the ice skates and got too overzealous fashioning them into weapons. There’s a slightly faded decal on the box that survived falling into the ocean and a buttload of direct sun exposure, a dove carrying an olive branch.

Hope.

Dean would stare at that decal for hours during the day, when he wasn’t crying over the old photo of his parents in his wallet, or the picture of Sam at his high-school graduation, or the handmade coupon for “one free kiss” that Lisa had given him on their last Valentine’s Day together, or his own ID. That dove had places to go, but it was there on the island with Dean, waiting for… something. Death, probably.

His bus leaves in three hours, it’ll probably take him two to walk to the bus station. He’ll say one thing for his time on the island, it’s given him awesome physical stamina. It’s why any money he makes these days comes from those day laborer gigs he finds on Craigslist. He can stand outside and paint someone’s house or move a bunch of furniture or haul bags of fertilizer like nobody’s business. As long as no one really talks to him.

It’s a fairly warm day in September, but Dean’s in his leather jacket anyway. It was his father’s, something John Winchester wore until the day he died. Actually, he died _in_ the jacket. Dean doesn’t know why Sam kept it, but he feels better in it, like his dad is still with him.

The only problem is that every time he puts it on, just for a moment he thinks about the fact that his father died thinking Dean was dead, and it’s a stone cold fucking bummer every time. Grieving that loss has been weird. By the time Dean found out, he hadn’t seen John in four years, and John had been dead for three of them. Plus, Dean received it in sort of an information dump right before the stay at the psych ward. All in all, he didn’t really grieve it “properly”, in his opinion, but he can’t just decide “alright, time to go through the five stages”.

He walks swiftly to the Greyhound station, head down, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, battered package in a tote bag Sam got for helping to fund a revival of Reading Rainbow. He makes eye contact with no one. He probably looks shifty, but at least he doesn’t have to make awkward eye contact with strangers and spend too long deciding whether or not he should smile. He has earbuds in, connected to Sam’s old iPod, which is full of Dean’s classic rock and classic metal favorites; all the stuff he was missing for four years. Sounds can bother Dean often, but listening to his music at a comfortable volume, that rarely agitates him, and he’s grateful for it. Especially since people are slightly less likely to talk to him when he’s listening to music.

Wichita isn’t as busy as the mayhem that was Bangkok, but it’s still pretty busy. Cars, people, dogs, cats. Things that didn’t exist on the island. When he looks at familiar sights, it feels like he’s looking at things he saw on TV once, instead of things he knows because he’s lived here since his mom died thirty years ago. He should probably get out more, so this place can start feeling like home again. Henriksen would probably suggest that, if Dean had actually mentioned how disconnected he feels from Wichita, which he hasn’t.

The walk to the Greyhound station goes by pretty quickly, considering Dean spends the whole time staring down as much as possible and thinking over and over again that this should feel more like home.

  


*

  


After a short wait at the bus station, Dean’s on his way to Champaign, Illinois. It’s a long trip. Dean spends most of it listening to his iPod. He wants to read one of the few Vonnegut books he brought with him, but he gets car sick after reading for more than five minutes every time he tries. He’s tired, but he can’t sleep. Not on a moving bus. He’ll take a nap at the motel when he gets to Illinois.

There’s a transfer in Kansas City, and one in St. Louis. The worst part of the trip is the layover in Kansas City. It’s a nearly four hour wait in the bus station and a pretty active part of the day, lots of people walking by, chatting, impatiently waiting behind him at the vending machine while he decides what he wants to eat, asking to use the outlet he’s charging his iPod in. The stopover in St. Louis is easier. It’s nearly three in the morning, and the other people at the bus station are too tired to be chatty.

At seven on Friday morning his bus gets to Champaign. He sends a text to Sam, who doesn’t respond because he won’t be awake for another hour, then he walks two miles to a motel. There’s one close to the bus station, but it’s nearly forty dollars more. Dean can’t see dropping that much money when he has two working legs and he’s awake enough to keep going.

The motel isn’t going to be winning any quality awards any time soon, but Dean’s baseline for comparison is a cave floor with a huge pile of vivid green leaves from trees and bushes Dean never learned the names of, so it’s still a pretty nice place.

He makes what amounts to a blanket fort with the sheets and blanket from the bed and sleeps on the floor, body too exhausted for his mind to keep him awake with thoughts of disquiet.

  


*

  


He dreams of his plane crashing into the ocean.

  


  


 


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a buzzing sound.

At first Dean thinks it’s one of those giant fucking flies from the island; they’re loud, especially when they’re right near Dean’s ear. It’s his phone though, vibrating on the floor next to him.

He sees Sam’s face in the display picture, so he answers. “Hey.”

“Hey, Dean! Just wanted to call and check up, see how the big delivery went.”

“Haven’t gone yet.”

“Really? What have you been doing this whole time?”

“This whole—” Dean looks at his phone and groans. It’s nine o’clock at night. “Jesus fuck, I’ve been asleep since I got here. Fuck, I should have set an alarm or something.”

“Guess I shouldn’t expect you back tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to show up at a stranger’s house in the middle of the _night,_ Sam.”

“Come on, I’m sure they wouldn’t find it creepy at all!”

“Har har.” Dean groans, crawling out of his “fort” and onto the bed.

“Were you sleeping on the floor?”

“No. Shut up.”

“I heard you make that old man noise, you were sleeping on the floor.”

“Fine, I was sleeping on the floor. I’d rather be comfortable, but it’s just easier to sleep when I’m not.”

“That can’t be good for your back, Dean.”

“My back’s _fine,_ Sam, I used to sleep on rocks and leaves and shit.”

“ _Shit_?”

“Not _actual shit,_ what the hell is wrong with you?” Dean barks, but he’s smiling.

“So, uh… while I have you on the phone, and don’t have to look you in the eye…” Oh, fuck, what does he want? “Bobby’s birthday is in a couple weeks.”

“Yeah?”

“He just called to say he’s having a shindig. Pretty small. Uh. Me, Jo, Ellen, Rufus, Garth, probably Benny, Tara, Jody, Jim Murphy’s supposed to be in town that week, Devereaux, Ash, of course…”

“That’s _small_?”

“Yeah, I guess not. But he’s gonna be grilling steaks and pouring beers.”

“Sammy, I want to go, but—” Dean sighs. “I hate the way they look at me. I hate the way their voices sound when they talk to me. The pity is almost as fucking unbearable as them trying to act like nothing’s changed when _everything’s changed_.”

“I can talk to them, Dean! I can tell them to not act—”

“No, but see, that’s not really fair, is it? To tell a bunch of people to not act how they want because it _bugs_ me? Pass. Besides, the only ones good at hiding their pity are you and Bobby. You know I saw Jody last week and she started crying? She was on duty, man. People thought I _did something_ to her.”

“It’s just… we’re all in a period of adjustment right now, it’ll get easier.”

“Yeah, I know. But in the meantime, I’d rather not deal with a bunch of people that knew me before… _before._ ”

“I knew you before.”

“You’re Sammy. You’re my brother. You’re my best friend. You’re letting me sleep in your backyard.”

“Wow, you’re sentimental.”

“I’ll think about it, okay? But don’t tell Bobby I’ll come, because I don’t know if I will.”

  


*

  


They end up chatting for over two hours, and the conversation goes far smoother than it usually does in person. Dean’s not feeling awkward for mostly not looking Sam in the eye, or worrying Sam is judging him when he _does_ look him in the eye. He’s not jumping when Sam scratches his ear too suddenly, or flinching when Sam laughs a little too loud. Actually he _is_ still flinching, but Sam can’t see it, so he doesn’t have that kicked puppy look. It’s the easiest conversation they’ve had since Dean came back, and he thinks Sam knows it too.

“Hey, so, I gotta go to sleep,” Sam says finally, “I have to go in early, there’s a presentation… or a meeting… uh, honestly I don’t remember anything other than ‘be here at seven-thirty, Winchester’,” Sam says in a gruff voice. Dean assumes he’s doing an impression of someone, but he has no idea who.

“I wonder if I can go back to sleep,” Dean muses. “Do you think Champaign has an exciting night life?”

“Population is around eighty thousand, so… maybe? Probably not? Are you actually going to go and find out?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah fucking right, Sam.”

  


*

  


Dean spends the night watching TV. There’s a Dr. Sexy M.D. marathon on cable, and Dean’s pretty excited; this was his favorite show before the island. The only problem is that the episodes are from two seasons after Dean disappeared, _and_ it’s been years since he saw any of the episodes at all, so he doesn’t really know what the fuck is going on. Dr. Sexy is still being sexy though, still inexplicably walking around Seattle Mercy Hospital in cowboy boots, hair still immaculate, so Dean’s pretty entertained until the marathon ends at five a.m. and Dean takes half an Ambien and gets back on the floor to sleep a little longer.

This time he sets his alarm.

  


  


*

(Saturday)

  


  


When he wakes up at nine, there’s a text from Jo on his phone.

_FROM JO: Just think about it! No pressure._

He doesn’t answer, but since he never responds to texts, Jo’s probably not expecting a reply anyway. He showers, changes, and then helps himself to the granola bars he bought at the vending machine in Kansas City. The address he has for Castiel Novak is six miles away, but Dean’s more than rested and ready for a walk. He brings his duffel bag with him, in case he decides to go straight to the bus station after he (hopefully) delivers his burden. There seems to be a city bus line running through this town, but Dean’s fine with walking. He did a lot of walking on the island, even after his shoes fell apart. Here the ground is even, he has comfortable shoes and socks, and sure the scenery is less objectively beautiful, but Dean will be fine not seeing any picturesque ocean views for at least the next decade, thanks.

It takes about two hours to reach his destination, a small gray house with a poorly maintained lawn, a crooked gutter, and peeling paint. The garage is closed, and the driveway is empty. He rings the doorbell, hears the gentle “ding dong” from within the house, and waits. Then he knocks.

And waits.

And then he waits some more.

He sighs, sitting on the porch steps, leaning to rest his head against the railing. He may as well wait a while longer, he really has nowhere to be.

  


*

  


Dean dreams of the island.

It’s a melancholy dream, he’s playing with the chess pieces in the sand, arranging them in a circle around one of the plastic pieces. It’s a party. Knight Carmen was missing for days, and Dean finally found her wedged under a rock a good ten feet from his “home”. It’s a celebration, but Dean mostly feels lonely. There’s a feeling like the chess pieces are all speaking in a language Dean can’t understand. He can observe their jubilation, but he can’t truly be part of it.

He doesn’t fit in anywhere.

  


 


	5. Chapter 5

 

“Excuse me, sir, are you alright?”

Dean’s eyes pop open.

There’s a man standing in front of him; brown hair, icy blue eyes, grocery bags at his feet.

“I’m uh… waiting for someone,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face as he wakes up a little more. “I think he lives here.”

The man tilts his head. “I live here. Alone. Are you waiting for me?”

“Are you Castiel?”

“I am. You look very familiar, have we met?” Yeah, Dean’s sure he looks _real_ familiar. His face was all over the news, all over the internet. He hated it.

“No, but I… I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

Castiel takes a step back, eyebrows furrowed. “I hope you understand why I find that a disconcerting statement coming from a stranger.”

Dean deflates slightly, feeling awkward. “It sounded better in my head.”

Castiel’s hand suddenly flies to his mouth, eyes wide. “ _Oh._ ”

Now Dean feels even more awkward. “Figured out where you knew me from, huh?”

“Y-yes, I apologize. You look so different— I didn’t mean… wh… what can I do for you? Mr. Winchester.”

Dean’s face is in his hands now. “First of all, never, ever call me that again. I’m Dean. Uh… second of all, I have something for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, uh… it’s a… this is a little weird, but I’ve had it a long time, and I’ve never opened it…” Dean pulls the package out of the bag, handing it over to Castiel, who accepts it, awed. His fingers trace over the battered edges, the streaks of dirt, the dove decal, the ridiculously old packing information on the front.

“Sent in two-thousand twelve,” Castiel says, softly. “You’ve had this for four years, and you never opened it?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Oh!” Castiel says suddenly. “Where are my manners?” He gathers his grocery bags in one hand and tucks the package under his arm. “Please, come inside.”

Dean nods and follows Castiel into his home, duffel bag in hand. Castiel’s house is… nice inside. Gentle, somehow, if a house can be gentle. The colors inside are a lot of muted tans and blues. It reminds him a little of the ocean. Not the vivid, bright ocean of his nightmares, but something calmer, more subdued. The Washington coast on an overcast day, or something poetic like that. Whatever one would call the color scheme, Dean finds it puts him at ease.

“Have a seat,” Castiel says, setting the package on the coffee table and disappearing through an open archway leading to the kitchen. Dean listens to the sound of the plastic bags being set down, then what sounds like a sigh, and fingers drumming against a hard surface. He sits on Castiel’s couch. He knows this couch. It’s a Crate and Barrel Lounge sofa, retailing at over fifteen hundred dollars.

It’s not the kind of thing Dean would normally notice, but he and Lisa once had a pretty spirited debate about buying this exact model when they first moved in together. Lisa had wanted this couch in “coffee”. Dean had wanted it in “sage”. In the end, they realized it was way too much money to spend on a damn couch when they still had other furniture to buy. They ended up going to a department store instead of buying a couch online anyway. This is “cobalt”, and it’s just as comfortable as it looked on the website. Dean rubs a hand over the fabric. Fuck, this is nice. He’d love to sleep on this couch. He’s not sure he’d actually be able to, but he’d be willing to give it a shot.

Over a minute passes before Castiel comes back out.

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you right away. I saw a great deal about you when the news first broke. You look different now, though,” Castiel says, mostly looking down at the package on the coffee table. “Your hair’s shorter, no beard, not so tan, less thin. The eyes are the same, though.”

Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I would have been really into the story too, I think. I mean if it had been someone else I was reading about.”

“It was a rather incredible story. My sisters and I were… I don’t want to say _obsessed,_ but we were very interested in the story when it came out. You survived so much, I— we found it inspiring.”

Dean shrugs. “I mean the p-plane crash was hard, but it’s not like I had to battle wild tigers or anything.”

Castiel’s eyebrows are raised incredulously as he looks up at Dean.

Dean sighs. “Okay, yeah. I survived a lot. I had to hunt my own food, I was alone with my thoughts all day every day for four years, my closest friends were pieces from a chess set that was supposed to go to someone named Sarah Blake, and after four years with no dental care my mouth was a _horror show._ ”

Now Castiel is staring at Dean’s mouth. This guy’s just a little bit off. It’s comforting. “Your mouth looks uh… fine now.”

Dean takes out his wallet, plopping down a business card for Dr. Josie Sands, DDS on the coffee table. “Miracle worker. Did the whole thing for the low price of some embarrassing before and after photos and a promise that I’d hand out her cards when appropriate. So uh, that’s for you, if you ever find yourself in need of some dental work, head out to Wichita,” he says, winking.

Castiel smiles at the card, then at Dean. “What made you hold onto this package, Dean? I recall reading that several of the packages you opened ended up containing things that helped you _survive,_ why wouldn’t you open this one?” He runs his fingers along the edges of the box, but makes no move to open it.

Dean watches Castiel’s hand for a long moment, long enough that it almost feels like too much time has passed to respond. It’s a question he’s been asked by Sam, by Henriksen. For some reason he feels ready to actually tell someone why he never opened that last package.

“Okay, so… here’s the thing,” Dean says slowly, still staring at Castiel’s hand. “For the most part, I had nothing to look forward to on that i-island. Nothing. Every day was the same warm, sticky, _aching wall_ of loneliness with no hope.”

The words start to come a little easier the more Dean talks.

“That package was the only thing I had left to look forward to. I’d opened the other packages, and some of them were useful... the ice skates probably saved my life... and some of them were worthless. Papers and electronics or whatever. I opened maybe four packages on that first day, then started staggering them out, you know? It was such a relief when I found something useful, and so disappointing when I found something that wasn’t… so when I got down to the last package, I got scared. I started thinking… it was my last chance to feel those things, and... and once I opened that last package, that would just be it. I had no expectation or hope of being rescued, once that package was opened, I’d have nothing left to look forward to but… but _death_. Some days it gave me something to live for,” Dean says, almost whispering. “There were days where thinking ‘at least I still have the last package’ actually kept me going, kept me _alive._ ”

Castiel reaches out with an aborted movement, then drops his hand. He says nothing, so Dean continues.

“Uh, anyway… within months I had nothing left to learn about the... the island, nothing left to explore, nothing to do; just killing crabs with a spear I made from an ice skate, fucking around with the few treasures and knickknacks and chess pieces from the packages I’d opened, and finding things to burn. I held onto it after I got rescued, because it was _mine,_ you know? Something that had been with me a long time. I forgot them... I forgot all my damn chess pieces, but I remembered the package.”

“The chess pieces are important to you,” Castiel notes. He’s sharp.

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t know why he’s telling this to a damn stranger. It’s easy, though. Easier than telling his friends and family that look at him with eyes full of pity, or Henriksen, who writes everything down because that’s his job. “But the package was more important. Anyway, I’ve been back a while now, and I figured I should bring this to the person it was meant for.”

“Are you sure?”

“What?”

“Are you sure you want to part with this? It sounds like it was a big part of your life, Dean, I don’t want—”

“It was a symbol, it’s okay. It was a symbol and I don’t need that symbol anymore. It got me through a lot, but I’m home, now, I can have other things to look forward to. Like showers, and food with seasoning on it, and toilet paper, and all the fresh water I can drink. I’m okay to let it go. And even if I’m not,” Dean says, trying for a smirk, “I _really_ want to know what’s inside, and now that I’m stateside I think I’d get in trouble for opening someone else’s mail.”

“I must admit, I’m relieved,” Castiel says, fingertips braced against the box. “I would have returned this to you, but I am… very curious. It’s odd, though. I never ordered anything that got lost in the mail… and I have to imagine if someone I know had sent something that never came, I’d know about it.”

“There might have been buyer information on the package before the crash, but it was gone when I got to it.”

“I’m a little nervous.”

Dean smiles. His eyes are a little wet, but so are Castiel’s. “Me too. If it’s a solar powered satellite phone, I’m going to be _devastated._ ”

Castiel maintains eye contact with Dean as he yanks the pull tab on the box, ripping the seal open in one swift movement. A little zip of adrenaline flicks through Dean, and he has no idea if it’s anticipation of seeing inside the package, or just the eye contact.

Castiel reaches into the package, and Dean holds his breath as he watches Castiel pull out a manila envelope, a few packing peanuts falling to the floor. It’s a little warped in places from old water damage, but the phone number written on it in black marker is still readable. The number has a Thai dialing code, and “Ball’s in your court. Call me, maybe?” scrawled underneath.

“Call me, maybe…” Castiel says, eyebrows furrowed.

“I remember that song!” Dean exclaims, then grimaces. “Uh. My ex liked it. Before the… before. Open it.”

Castiel nods, setting the box down and undoing the little red cord that holds the envelope closed. He reaches inside and removes a picture frame. Dean can’t see the picture from where he is, but whatever is in the frame makes Castiel gasp, one hand dropping the envelope and flying to his mouth.

“You’re _killing me,_ ” Dean blurts out. Castiel stares at the frame a moment longer, then turns it around so Dean can see it.

It’s two young boys, one about seven years old, the other closer to teenaged. The older one has a cast on his leg, and the younger one has paused in drawing on it in marker to smile at the camera. There’s a crack running along the top of the glass panel over the photo, but the thing is _remarkably_ intact considering it fell out of a fucking plane.

“This is me,” he says, tapping the glass and pointing to the boy with shaggy brown hair and blue eyes. Dean can certainly see the resemblance. “And this,” Castiel taps the glass again, pointing to the older boy with honey colored hair and hazel eyes, “is my brother, Gabriel. He left. He left a long, long time ago. Teen rebellion, my parents said. They are on the strict and conservative side, and Gabriel is… not.” He turns the photo back so he can look at it, smiling sadly. “We were close. I have other brothers and sisters that I love dearly, but back then, Gabriel and I had a bond that meant a great deal to me. I thought he would come back for me, but he never did. Not for me, not for anyone. Not when I nearly died in a car accident, not when our grandmother passed. He’s missed weddings, funerals, the birth of nieces and nephews. I… I suppose I thought him dead.”

Well, now Dean understands the olive branch decal. “Holy shit.”

“He reached out to me. And he must have thought I… if this was his only attempt, he must have thought...”

“Holy _shit._ ”

Castiel sits down on the sofa next to Dean, still clutching the frame. “I have to agree with you.”

“Are you gonna call him?”

“I don’t know. He _left,_ but… but he’s alive. Or he was four years ago,” Castiel says, looking disturbed. “You brought this package so far. Surely… _surely_ I’m meant to call him.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, don’t look at it like that. Don’t look at it like an obligation. It’s still up to you, it’s your decision.”

Castiel reaches in his pocket, pulling out a phone. “It is.”

Okay, something private is about to happen. Dean starts to stand. “I can—”

“Please don’t go.”

“I don’t want to intrude, man.”

“You’ve come all this way.”

“I saw what was inside.”

“I don’t want to do this alone,” Castiel says, voice small, like a timid child.

Dean relaxes back against the couch. “Well then, you don’t have to.”

Castiel dials the number, hand trembling just slightly. He switches the phone to speaker mode as it rings, curling away from it on the couch. He looks afraid. Dean wants to make a comforting gesture; a hug, a squeeze to the shoulder, but he really doesn’t know this man.

A tired woman’s voice comes on over the line. “Hello?”

Castiel stares at the phone, not saying a damn thing.

“Is there a Gabriel at this number?” Dean says. He glances at Castiel, who’s chewing on his lower lip.

The woman groans. “Ugh, yes.” There’s a sound of fabric rustling, a thump, and then there’s a man whining for the woman to stop hitting him. “This is for you,” the woman grumbles.

“Hello?” the man says.

Dean looks at Castiel, who’s now apparently frozen. “Dude,” he whispers, leaning over to gently smack Castiel’s arm with the back of his hand, “you have to speak.”

“ _Hello_?” the man says again. “Come on, it’s _late._ ”

“G-Gabriel?” Castiel finally manages to say.

“Yeah, speaking. Who’s this? More importantly, do you know what time it is?”

“I apologize, it’s early in the afternoon where I am.”

Gabriel yawns. “Alrighty.”

“I-I got your package.”

“You got my— who is this?”

“C-c… it’s Castiel, Gabriel.”

There’s some scrambling, the woman from before snapping “ _watch it!”,_ more scrambling, the sound of a door closing, then Gabriel’s voice is considerably more alert.

“Cassie?”

“Yes. Hi.”

“Holy shit, Cassie! I never thought I’d hear from you again.”

“I feel the same way, Gabriel. Part of me believed you dead… until today.”

“Until today? I sent that package years ago, there’s no way you’re just now getting it.”

“I _am_ , though, Gabriel. I received it not twenty minutes ago.”

“Holy… this is what happens when you’re lazy with tracking and insurance, right? _Right_?” Castiel smiles and shakes his head fondly as Gabriel continues. “You really just got it today? You’re not pulling my leg?”

“No, I promise. I swear it.”

Dean stands slowly, uncomfortable. This is way too intimate a moment for him to be witnessing, and Castiel seems like he’s gotten past the fear portion of the call. “I’m gonna—”

Castiel’s eyes widen and he grabs Dean’s wrist. “Please don’t go.”

“What?” Gabriel says.

“Not you, just a second, Gabriel.”

“Ooookay.”

Castiel lets go of Dean’s wrist and looks up at him with pleading eyes. “Stay. Please. I would very much like to talk to you some more, Dean.”

Dean looks from the phone in Castiel’s hand, to the door, to his duffel bag. “I can… I can stay a while. How about I go put your groceries to good use? I’m _ridiculously fucking rusty,_ but I used to cook all the time.”

Castiel beams up at him. “That would be wonderful. Help yourself.”

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean finds his way into the kitchen while Castiel moves to what Dean assumes is his bedroom to continue the call.

Shit.

He pictured so many things in that package, ranging from things he thought were likely, to things that were too large or heavy to possibly be inside. He pictured books, weapons, clean socks, tubes of toothpaste, puzzles, seeds, more chess pieces, thumbtacks, an iPad… lots of things.

He never imagined it would be something so life changing for the recipient. It’s… extraordinary, which is not a term Dean is prone to using. This will in some way, big or small, change Castiel’s life, and Dean’s had it sitting in Sam’s closet for weeks.

Dean opens Castiel’s pantry, then his fridge, staring at the contents, waiting for inspiration. Some of the stuff looks old, Dean gets the sense that most of what Castiel bought today is stuff to make sandwiches.

Not wanting to go for something too ambitious, but also wanting to give Castiel some time on the phone, Dean opts for pasta and meatballs. He balks at thawing the frozen ground beef he finds by putting it in the microwave, but he doesn’t really have time to thaw it through his preferred methods.

Dean was largely self-taught, never had formal culinary training, but boy did he love to cook. It was his favorite way of taking care of his brother, and even his father after his mother died, something John disliked initially, until he realized he could make a little more money when he didn’t have to rush home to make dinner for his boys. John had even been the one to tell Dean that thirty wasn’t too old to think about culinary school, just a handful of months before Thailand.

Damn, that hurts to think about.

Time passes quickly as Dean starts his sauce, boils his noodles, makes his meatballs. He hasn’t been able to enter this... _zone_ in so long, he forgot it existed. Peace and progress, it’s a good zone to sink into. His timing for things is slightly off, it’s been so long since he did this, but he’s still pretty happy with what he’s made. He wants to make garlic bread, but all Castiel has is generic white bread, and Dean just can’t do it. Maybe it’s been over four years since he cooked a real meal, but he still has standards.

Before long, the pasta, meatballs, and sauce are ready and waiting to be served. Dean goes in search of Castiel, and when he doesn’t find Castiel in the living room, Dean drifts towards the other rooms. The door to the bathroom is wide open, showing it to be empty, and the only other door in this little house is cracked open slightly. Dean can hear sniffling coming from within, but no talking.

“Castiel?” Dean says tentatively.

Another sniffle. “I’ll be right out, I just…”

It’s rude, overly familiar, but Dean pushes the door open. Castiel is sitting cross legged on his bed, framed photo in his lap, eyes red-rimmed.

He looks up at Dean, forlorn. “I haven’t cried in _years._ ”

“Hey, I cried the first time I talked to my brother after a long time had passed, I get it.”

“I’m not sure the situations are quite the same.”

“I know. I’m just saying, everyone cries. I cry all the time.” He really does. Dean can’t remember the last time he cried _before_ Thailand, but now he cries at least once a week, usually far more.

“Still, I can’t believe— this idea that perhaps Gabriel was dead had started off so small, and I never truly mourned his death, but I had come to accept it as reality. I don’t even know when it happened, but ‘Gabriel is dead’ became truth. I tell people I have two sisters and two brothers, instead of three brothers. And he’s _alive._ Alive all this time, and he didn’t contact me, or any of us.”

“I mean technically he did… four years ago.”

Castiel chuckles, something sad and humorless. “Yes. He sent one package to one family member four years ago, and when I didn’t reply, he simply let it go.”

“I take it you’re kinda mad at him.”

Castiel nods. “I am. I was so relieved, and that burned away to anger very, very quickly.”

“Did you tell him to fuck off, then?”

“No. But I did tell him he was not forgiven, not yet. Then he promised he would make things right even if it took decades, and then a woman I believe was his wife started yelling at him to come back to bed, and it seemed like a good place to end the call.”

“It seems hopeful to me.”

“It is. And I have permission to tell the family. Parents aside, my family has evolved a great deal… and so often I have thought about what a shame it was that Gabriel has not been around to see that. This is… good news. But…” Castiel looks down at the photo in his lap again. “I missed a lot. He was essentially a teen when he left, he was this. I don’t even know what he looks like now, I don’t know the name of the cranky woman that answered the phone, I don’t know what prompted him to send this package. I didn’t even ask why he’s been living in Thailand for at least four years.”

“Well… you can find all that out, right?” Dean’s sitting next to Castiel on the bed now, and he has no idea when that happened.

“It’s difficult to reconcile my relief with over a decade of grieving and feelings of abandonment.”

“Is there anything I can do, as some random dude that wandered into your house an hour or so ago?”

Castiel looks at Dean, smiling slightly. “You can tell me what smells so lovely.”

“Rigatoni and meatballs,” Dean says, grinning. “Warm and waiting.”

Castiel practically shoves Dean in his haste to get up and he hurries out to the kitchen, Dean trailing behind him. He makes a beeline for the stove, lifting the lid from the pot with the sauce and breathing in deep.

“I didn’t know I even had the ingredients for this.”

“A lot of it was hiding in your pantry and your freezer. You don’t cook much, huh?”

Castiel shakes his head as he fetches some plates and forks. “No, it’s never quite been a passion of mine, and I’ve been busy as of late. Work.”

Dean piles a plate with food and hands it to Castiel before filling his own. “Yeah? What do you do?”

“I work in my sister’s stationery store. She’s eight months pregnant, so her attendance is… spotty at present. Some days I rather unexpectedly have to open and close.”

They perch at the small table and chair set in the kitchen. “Stationery store?” Dean says. “So, like… pens and envelopes?”

“Pens, envelopes, pencils, notebooks, stickers, greeting cards, scrapbooking supplies, and paper, paper, paper.”

“Oh, that sounds—”

“Boring, yes. But I like the quiet, and I love the smell of paper.” Castiel takes a bite of his food and sighs happily. “This is wonderful, Dean. I really ought to eat things other than sandwiches and bake-at-home pizza.”

Dean takes a bite himself. It’s good, he’s glad to know he hasn’t lost his touch. “Hey, I know what you mean. I just eat microwave burritos and cereal. And casseroles. A lot of casseroles. I haven’t really been up for seeing much of my friends and family, aside from my brother, so… they send their love through casseroles.”

“That’s very sweet.”

“Yeah but there’s just two of us living in that house, and people are giving us a _lot_ of casseroles. The fridge and freezer are getting crowded. On the plus side, they’re good casseroles. Most of it’s coming from my Aunt Ellen and my Uncle Bobby... neither are blood relatives, that’s just what I call them… anyway, they make good food. They’re real anxious to get meat on my bones,” Dean says, pinching his own cheek. He’s filled out a lot since he got back, but he still doesn’t have the body he did before; fit, but comfortably pudgy in places. He actually misses the bit of tummy fat he used to complain endlessly about to Lisa.

“May I ask what you did before? Your job?”

“I was just a construction guy. Worked for a contractor in Wichita. He went out of business while I was gone, guess they couldn’t make it without me,” Dean says, winking. Actually, Dean’s boss retired and sold his company to a larger firm, who fired and rehired everyone back at the bottom rung of the ladder so they could pay them less. If Dean had been around for that, he would have been pissed.

“Do you think you’ll go back into that?”

“Dunno, maybe. Sometimes I pick up odd jobs on Craigslist and do them for some quick cash. Paint a house, mow a few lawns, clean gutters, that kind of shit. But I’m not sure I’m ready to get back in it full time; mentally or physically. So for now… odd jobs it is.”

“Well, I don’t know how long you’re in town for, but if you do odd jobs, there’s about a million things I’d love to get help with.”

“Yeah?”

“I am not what you’d call… handy. My siblings seem to generally agree that my attempts to fix things have disastrous results. My oldest brother Michael once slapped a screwdriver out of my hand when he saw I was about to attempt to fix a loose hinge. _A loose hinge,_ Dean, I’m certain I can tighten a hinge without anything catching fire.” Castiel’s glaring as he speaks, and Dean can’t help but smile. That “they’re my annoying family but I love them” shit always tugs at Dean’s heartstrings.

“So do things usually catch fire when you try to fix them?”

“A coffee maker, a radiator at my sister’s old apartment building, a doorbell, things like that… some things didn’t catch fire, some just emitted sparks. Or broke further.” Castiel sighs. “My reputation is deserved, hence the slight look of disrepair all over my home. If I try to mow my lawn, or touch up the paint, or fix the creaky step on the porch… somehow, it will all catch fire or burst into a shower of sparks.”

“If you paint your house and somehow cause it to catch fire, let me know, because that sounds like something I want to see.”

They eat quietly for a minute or two, sipping on glasses of filtered water and making soft, happy noises at the flavors.

“I know you don’t live nearby at all, but… if you’re amenable, perhaps I could… hire you for a weekend, sometime. There’s a lot I’ve neglected. Among other things, I believe my drain needs snaking.”

Dean nearly spits out his drink. “Fuck, for a second I thought you were fucking hitting on me, man.”

Castiel makes a squeaking choking sound and shakes his head vigorously. “No. _No._ That is not at _all_ what I was suggesting. I was thinking you could come here for a weekend and fix… whatever needs fixing,” Castiel says, gesturing to the house in general. “I would pay you for your labor and whatever supplies you need, of course.” He narrows his eyes at Dean. “This is _not_ a sexual offer.”

Castiel seems so _scandalized,_ it’s pretty fucking funny. “I get it, I get it, you want me to snake your drain, not _snake your drain_ ,” Dean says, winking.

Castiel scowls a little, blushing. “Yes, the first one.”

“Clean your pipes, but not _clean your pipes._ ”

“Dean.”

“Fix your creaky steps, not… wait, never mind, that one doesn’t work. Okay, how about after we eat I wander around the house and figure out what needs to be done?”

“So you can make more awkward double entendre?” Castiel says dryly.

“No. Well, maybe. But also so I can come back and fix it all sometime. Sound good?”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, “but no jokes about cleaning my gutters.”

 

*

 

When they finish dinner, Dean wanders around the house with a pen and a notebook. It’s a really nice notebook, actually. Leather bound and mostly full of to-do lists and reminders. There’s a lot about Castiel’s house that he’d fix, but he’s not sure how much of it _needs_ to be done. He jots things down anyway.

_snake drain_

_mow lawn_

_clean gutters_

_fix crooked gutter_

_fix creaky second step on porch_

_redo paint on house_

_redo paint on porch_

_fix weird screen door_

_fix leak under kitchen sink_

_water stain on bedroom ceiling, check for leak_

_fix wobbly coffee table_

_figure out the source of the smell on the back porch_

_fix backyard fence_

_fix bike_

“You don’t need to fix my _bike,_ Dean,” Castiel says, peering over his shoulder at the list.

Dean glances at the bike, which is locked to the back porch, and slightly rusting. “You see the way the back tire is bent almost in half? It’ll be easier to ride if it’s not like that.”

“I take the bus now, it’s fine.”

“What the hell even happened to this bike?”

“I got hit by a car.”

Dean can’t help but look at Castiel, checking for visible scars. “You got hit by a car.”

“It hurt. I’m fine taking the bus.”

“It’s still on my list.”

Castiel sighs. “Fine. This is going to take longer than a weekend.”

“I’ve got time.”

Castiel takes the list out of Dean’s hands, dragging a finger down the list line by line as he reads it over. He has such nice hands. “Well, I’m looking forward to having my siblings over without them looking around my home in dismay.”

“Maybe they do that because this place is in serious need of some decorations. Plants, posters, paintings, cave drawings you made with charred wood…”

“You… made cave drawings?”

Dean shrugs. “I had a lot of free time on the uh... th-the island.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

There’s no bus back to Wichita until tomorrow, so Castiel offers Dean his couch. It’s pretty early in the evening, but Dean’s drained, Castiel had seemed emotionally if not physically exhausted, there’s no reason for them to stay up. Dean actually wanted to talk to Castiel some more, but he figures they have time; they’ve already exchanged phone numbers, discussed compensation... this maintenance plan is pretty much a done deal, they’ll have time to talk again later.

Dean really likes talking to Castiel. Castiel’s a good listener, he’s oddly and possibly unintentionally funny at times, and he’s curious about Dean without being overbearing about it. It’s cool, Dean likes it. He feels like he could tell Castiel some of his more embarrassing hang-ups and not be judged for it.

It’s _ridiculous,_ actually, how good it’s been to talk to Castiel today. Dean talked easily, he didn’t flinch too much during the conversation, had no problems maintaining eye contact for short amounts of time… although maybe that’s because Castiel has eyes that are _really_ nice to look at.

Dean considers all this as he lies on Castiel’s couch, waiting to fall asleep. It’s been at least forty minutes since Castiel went into his bedroom, Dean’s no closer to falling asleep. He’s tired, but he’s not tired enough to fall asleep on this nice, awesome, _comfortable_ couch that smells just a little bit like honey. It’s a weird issue, this inability to sleep indoors if his body meets some arbitrary threshold for “too comfortable”. He’s certain he would sleep better on this couch, or on a bed, if he could actually get to the point where he fell asleep. However, something about the comfort and the four walls around him makes his mind too active, makes him think about the rocks and sticks and moss and sand he slept on night after night. His mind rarely lets him settle. He wants to curl up in this sweet-smelling couch and drift off, but that’s not happening.

He waits ten more minutes and then gets up with a sigh, grabbing his duffel bag on his way to the back door.

Castiel’s backyard is just as small as Sam’s, but the grass is cushy and green, and there’s a good sized slippery elm tree almost dead center. Dean props his bag up against the tree for a pillow, and lies on his back. It’s cool out, so Dean’s glad for his leather jacket and the boots he still has on, but he’d kind of like to bring a blanket or a pillow out with him. But this isn’t his house, and he’s not going to wake up Castiel to explain… _this,_ so he’s just going to be cold. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, staring up into the dark tree branches he can make out with light from some streetlights in the area. It’s not as quiet as Sam’s backyard; there’s distant traffic, and someone a few houses away has their television up really loud, but it becomes white noise after a few minutes.

He drifts.

He’s not asleep yet, but he’s getting closer. There are tree roots digging into his shoulder, a rock under his ass, but that discomfort is still what makes sense to him.

For no reason, really, he looks away from the branches and over toward the house, startling when he realizes Castiel is watching him from his bedroom window. Dean can’t really make out his expression from here, but Castiel’s head is tilted slightly, something curious or confused in the gesture. Dean’s not sure if it’s too dark for Castiel to realize Dean is looking back at him, but after another minute Castiel retreats from the window.

Dean’s not all that surprised to hear the back door open less than a minute later. Castiel approaches Dean cautiously, blanket slung around his shoulders. He’s wearing pajamas. Honest to goodness matching pajamas, like Dean used to wear when he was a kid. They’re probably flannel and comfy. He stands next to where Dean’s still lying on the ground. Dean half expects to look at Castiel’s feet and see big fluffy bunny slippers, but he just sees bare toes clenching in the grass.

“I know my couch is not the most comfortable, but surely it’s more comfortable than this,” Castiel says, voice bone-dry.

Dean smiles up at him. “I just love that Illinois backyard ambience too much.”

“So…”

“So…?”

“Is this a… thing?”

“A thing?”

“A quirk that can be attributed to your trauma.”

There’s an instinct to lie, but there’s no point in trying to hide it, since Castiel’s caught him and all. Besides, Castiel’s been pretty cool so far. So, Dean nods. “Yeah, it’s a thing.”

“Oh…” Castiel says, sitting down in the grass. His voice is sleepy, weighted with sympathy and curiosity.

“It’s hard to explain. I guess I… associate discomfort with sleep? Every night on the i-i-island, I’d go to sleep and I could never _really_ get comfortable. There was always something off. The grass was too itchy, the cave was too hard and lumpy, I was too cold… shit like that. When I got back home, I was so excited to be in a real fucking bed, you know? But I can’t sleep in one. It’s too comfortable. I like… I don’t know, got trained to have _something_ bothering me, I guess. I’m so used to sleeping outdoors, and…” Dean sighs. “I usually either stay awake so long that I’m exhausted and can sleep in my bed, or take sleeping pills which make me fucking groggy the whole next day… or I go out and sleep in my brother’s backyard. At first I slept like this, but then Sam got me a tent. Works pretty well. Most nights I sleep in the tent, don’t even bother taking it down in the morning anymore.”

“I see. I wish I had a tent to offer you here, but I don’t own one.”

“It’s fine. I don’t _need_ the tent. I had a little blanket fort and slept on the floor in my motel. Kind of worked. Thought it’d be weird to do that here, though. We just met.”

“You can make a… blanket fort in my living room, if you’d like.”

“Maybe next time.”

“It’s chilly out here.”

Dean hugs his arms tighter around himself. “I’ll be okay.”

Castiel yawns, mouth huge and hanging open for an eternity. He scoots closer to Dean. “Would it be alright if I sat with you for a while? Or would that make it harder for you to sleep?”

“No,” Dean says, “it’s okay. You can sit.”

  


  


*

(Sunday)

  


Dean wakes up, and he’s not alone.

It’s not _that_ unusual to wake up and not be alone, sometimes Sam sleeps next to Dean. They don’t talk about it, it’s only happened a handful of times, and Sam’s always long gone by the time Dean’s fully awake and puzzling over vague memories of Sam curled up next to him like he used to after a nightmare when they were kids, before Sam’s friends told Sam that only babies crawled into bed with their big brothers after a bad dream.

The person burrowed into Dean’s side, snoring softly isn’t Dean’s overgrown little brother, though, it’s Castiel. He’s curled up right against Dean, using his fists for a pillow. They’re not _quite_ snuggling, but there’s still an odd “morning after” sort of feeling. In a nice way, Dean thinks. Like they shared something special last night and now they’re waking up together. It’s not all that far from the truth though, really. They shared something special. Dean showed up and changed Castiel’s life with his belated package delivery, that’s pretty special.

Dean wonders what the protocol is. He ought to get to the bus station, and since Castiel doesn’t have a car, Dean will probably be walking, which is fine, but he should probably get going. He spends a minute looking at Castiel, wondering whether he should wake him up. They already exchanged phone numbers last night, Dean will likely be back in a week or two, maybe a goodbye isn’t necessary.

He starts to slowly scoot to the side, then stops. There are times, since Dean has returned, where Dean feels like simple social etiquette completely escapes him. Politeness, social intuition, shit like that, those are muscles that atrophied in Dean’s years of solitude. He needs more practice, he knows, which is hard when the only people he interacts with are his brother and his doctors. After another moment of pondering, Dean decides he’d be kind of an asshole to just leave a dude sleeping on the ground without a goodbye.

“Castiel,” he says gently, giving Castiel’s shoulder a little push.

Castiel mumbles a little and shuffles closer to Dean.

“Hey. Cas.”

Castiel reaches out, and his fingers grip the collar of Dean’s leather jacket.

Dean stares at the hand clutching him, sighs, and relaxes back into the ground.

It’s fine, the bus station will be there.

  


  


*

  


  


When Dean wakes again, Castiel is wrapped around him like a koala, and Dean really, really has to pee.

“Castiel,” he says.

Castiel doesn’t stir.

“Cas.”

Nothing.

“ _Cas,_ ” he says, louder this time. Castiel twitches and opens his eyes, and Jesus fucking Christ did they somehow get even _bluer_ since yesterday? His eyes are confused at first, then wide as he awkwardly disentangles himself from Dean.

“Oh, this is… this is very uncomfortable,” Castiel says.

“Well _I’m_ uncomfortable because my bladder is really full, but you… you seemed plenty comfortable to me.”

“This is awkward.”

Dean shrugs and gets to his feet. “My brother does the same thing, I’m used to it. I guess I just inspire cuddling.”

Castiel stands as well, and balls his blanket up in his arms. “Regardless, I apologize. I would never have invaded your space like that, had I been awake.”

“I’m not worried about it Cas,” Dean says. Castiel’s blushing a little, and Dean probably is too.

  


*

  


Castiel insists on giving Dean breakfast, which is apparently a bowl of Cap’n Crunch “Oops! All Berries” cereal.

“I really do apologize,” Castiel says when Dean’s just about done with his bowl.

“Cas, if you apologize again, I’m changing your contact name to Cuddle Monster in my phone.”

“That’s not a very threatening threat.”

“Cuddle Bunny?”

“Uh, I suppose that’s slightly more threatening. I just don’t want to… injure our fledgling friendship with some sort of untoward behavior.”

 _Untoward._ Jesus, this guy is a fucking riot. “It’s okay, I swear. Besides, you smell nice.”

“I… smell nice?”

“Yeah, like something sweet. Jojoba.”

“I… use a jojoba oil shampoo. Were you smelling my hair?”

Dean shrugs. “Your head was really close.”

Castiel huffs out the faintest of laughs. “I can’t believe I was worried about you finding me inappropriate. You smelled my hair.”

“It was _right there._ ”

  


*

  


Dean spends his entire walk to the bus station smiling to himself, and he’s not even really sure why.

  


  


 


	8. Chapter 8

(Monday)

  


  


“That is one incredible story, I must say.”

Henriksen is scribbling notes quickly, finishing whatever Dean’s story compelled him to write down.

“Yeah, it was a pretty incredible moment. I was… I was honestly kind of scared that we’d open the package and it would be… nothing. Some bootleg dvds, or a stack of legal papers… something that would be like… _uncomfortably_ mundane. I mean what the fuck would we have done if he opened the box and found a box of cheap pens or some shit? Four years is a long time to wait and get hyped for something. But it was huge. It was huge, because it was so important to him, you know? It just… felt really good to be part of something like that. Made me feel like I was part of the world again.”

“I get the sense that you’ve felt very disconnected, but I hope this is showing you that you can change that by getting out there in the world,” Henriksen says gently.

“It did. Kind of. I mean I kind of made a friend, and I’m gonna see him again sometime soon.”

“I realize this is going to feel condescending to you, and so I want to first assure you that it’s not.”

Dean feels himself tense up a little. “Uh, okay.”

“You’ve taken a big step in choosing to create a new friendship, and I’m proud of the work you’re putting in.”

“Aww _jeez,_ Victor, don’t—”

Henriksen holds a hand up. “Look at the clock. Our session is over. You can escape your discomfort safely.”

Dean smirks and stands. “Okay well, see you next time.”

  


 

*

(Tuesday, eight days later)

  


 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem different.” Sam’s eyeing Dean suspiciously from across the table, though it’s hard to look directly at him when he’s wearing that fucking yellow shirt.

“Different how?”

“Well… for one, you made _dinner_ ,” Sam says, gesturing to the food between them.

“Not a big deal, Sammy, it’s just steak and baked potatoes.”

“Yeah, but you never cook anymore.”

“Well, I’m going to start cooking sometimes. I miss it.”

Sam smiles a big dumb sappy smile and Dean fights the urge to scowl. “That’s great... that’s _awesome_ , Dean. If you need grocery money, let me know.”

“So, uh… it’s good then? Edible?”

“It’s good, Dean. It’s delicious, even. I’ve really missed your home cooking.”

“Okay, okay, simmer down,” Dean says, feeling embarrassed.

“So, you call Castiel yet?”

“Uh… no?”

“It’s been over a week! You haven’t called?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “You understand that I didn’t go on a date with him, right…”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you had like this life altering experience with him, and you said you’d probably go see him again, I thought you’d… you know. Made a friend.”

“I _will_ see him again, I’m just… waiting.”

“For what?”

“You know. The right time to uh… to call.”

“Okay, when is the right time to call?”

“I’m waiting for him to make the first move.”

Sam sets his fork down. “Are you… _sure_ you’re not dating him?”

“I just met the guy!”

“So when you get to know him better…”

Dean’s about ready to chuck his half-eaten potato at Sam’s head. “How the hell did we get here? I’m not going to date him, I just don’t want to be the weirdo calling him before he’s ready!”

“Yeah, like you do when you’re too chicken to call someone you want to date.”

“It’s not like that, okay? I can’t _date_.”

“Why?”

“Uh… why do you think?”

“You’re in therapy, you’re doing better, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with—”

“No one wants to fuck the guy that cries when he sees crabs, Sam.”

“So, you _want_ to—”

“No. _No,_ for crying out loud!” Dean barks.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to… push. You’re just kind of acting like you used to when you liked someone, I thought maybe—”

“I just don’t know how to make friends anymore, man. I thought I should wait for him to call. I keep thinking maybe I weirded him out.”

“Weirded him out how? What’d you do?”

“He found me sleeping in his backyard.”

“Oh. Well, did he _seem_ weirded out?”

“I mean kind of, I don’t know. He was nice about it. We talked until we fell asleep and when I woke up he was all snuggled up against—” Dean cuts himself off, but it’s too late, Sam’s already perking up again.

“He was _snuggled up against you_?”

“He was unconscious, man, it’s not like that. Look, Sammy, I know you want me to get back out there and be normal again, but I can’t just… go on dates and go to Bobby’s party and all that stuff right now. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t want to start dating right now. I mean I’m dealing, I’m getting a little better as time passes, but if I date, then they’ve gotta find out about all my baggage and nightmares and prescriptions and how the fuck do I _tell someone_ about that? Do you know what I mean?”

“Uh… kind of. In theory. I don’t want to say I know what you mean because I obviously haven’t been where you’ve been. Have you talked to Henriksen about this?”

“No, I don’t tell him _everything_.”

“Okay, well… you don’t want to date Castiel, you want to be friends with him.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re worried you’re too weird to be friends with.”

“I guess.”

“So you’re waiting for him to contact you first.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, got it. You want my advice?”

“No, not really.”

“Just call him, Dean. If he doesn’t want to be friends, then you can deal with it and move on. Just get it over with now.”

“What, like _now-_ now?”

“No, not— actually yes. Call him now. And if it goes badly, then I’m here and you can talk to me, and you still have dinner, and we can… play Mario Kart or some shit. Call him now.”

Dean wants to protest, but… honestly it’s good to have Sam pushing him to do this. If it goes badly, he can blame his brother, easy peasy. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and thumbs his way to Castiel’s name on his painfully short contact list.

“So are you going to sit right there while I make this call?” Dean says, looking up at Sam.

Sam shrugs, cutting a piece of his steak free. “Looks like.”

“Right, this won’t be awkward at all.” Dean grouses as he makes the call, even though he honestly feels “safer” having Sam nearby.

“Hello?” Castiel’s gentle, scratchy voice comes over the line.

“Uh, hey, Cas. Castiel. Uh, it’s Dean. Winchester. We met the other day, like a week ago, remember?”

Sam’s face is in his hands, and Dean doesn’t blame him.

“Of course I remember you, Dean,” Castiel says. He sounds like maybe he’s smiling, it makes Dean smile a little too.

“Right. Because it was like a week ago.”

“How are you?”

“I’m uh… I’m good, or like… the same as the last time we talked. I mean I sleep in a tent in my brother’s backyard, and the other day I started crying because I started thinking about Gilligan’s… uh I-Island, and how they never got off the— the i-i-island but at least they had each other… and, uh… I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Jesus fucking Christ.” Sam’s probably staring at him right now, but Dean’s not going to look, he’s just going to stare intently at the small puddle of butter next to his potato.

Castiel is silent for a long moment. “But they _do_ get off the island,” he says finally.

“They do?”

“There were sequels, made for TV movies. They get rescued from the island. Multiple times, actually. I think the Harlem Globetrotters get involved at one point. I saw a documentary about the show, once.”

“Oh. Well, that’s cool. I got off my i-island too.”

“You did. I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah, me too. Uh, so… uh, I’m calling because uh, we were supposed to uh, you know. Make plans. Uh for the work on your house? Unless you’re not into the idea anymore, because that’s cool too, I just wanted to ask, uh, just in case, no pressure.” Fuck, Dean’s never really been a “phone person”, but this is just pathetic.

“Of course I would still love your services, Dean,” Castiel says. The way he says it makes a weird curl of _something_ simmer in Dean’s gut. Fucking Sam. This is his fault. Dean wasn’t even _thinking_ on that level of… and then… and okay maybe Dean was thinking on that level a little, but only _barely,_ and now he’s thinking about this guy’s fucking _voice,_ God fucking damnit.

“That’s um… that’s good.”

“My siblings have been over a great deal since I delivered the news about Gabriel, I didn’t think you’d be comfortable.”

“Oh, uh… yeah, I probably wouldn’t.”

“But, I think the visits are finally tapering off, I’d been thinking about calling you, um… Gabriel’s going to visit in a month or two, seems like a good excuse to fix this house up. I thought about seeing if you’d like to get started this weekend. Or maybe next weekend.”

“This weekend!” Oh fucking hell, calm _down,_ Dean. “Uh, I mean, this weekend would be cool. I’ve got bus fare.”

“I could… buy supplies. Um. Where would we start?”

“You have a mower?”

“I can borrow one.”

“Pressure washer?”

“I can… buy one.”

“No, no don’t buy a pressure washer for _one_ day, come on. Places rent them. We’re gonna need plastic and duct tape too, to protect the windows.”

“Hold on, let me get a pen… alright. Borrow a lawn mower, rent a pressure washing device, get plastic and duct tape. Anything else?”

“Ladder?”

“Ohh, I have one!” He sounds so proud of himself, it’s endearing.

“Rake?”

“Yes.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have a drain snake.”

“No…”

“Those are pretty cheap, they have them at Home Depot. Do you have a set of tools?”

“I do, but I’m missing the hammer. And the pliers. And the level. My sister borrowed them and I never saw them again.”

“Okay, no problem. I think I’ll be able to cross off quite a few things over the weekend. Should I get there Friday evening or Saturday morning? Uh, I can’t sleep on the bus… because of… there’s a lot of people on buses... so I’m gonna need a nap.”

“Friday evening is fine with me, we can get started bright and early Saturday morning.”

“Alright, cool.”

“So… we have a plan, then. Wonderful, Dean. How do we go about payment? I’ve read conflicting information on how much I should pay. I was thinking twenty for each labor hour? And I could purchase your return ticket?”

“ _Way_ better than I make on Craigslist.” Dean has this urge to wink, but it’s not like Castiel can see him. “This is a lot of money, though… I gotta be honest, Cas… you can get this done for way cheaper if you put an ad or something.”

Castiel chuckles. “The point is to hire _you,_ remember?”

“I feel guilty for how much this will run you.”

“I can afford it. Don’t feel guilty. I’m hiring you, and I’m willing to pay this amount.”

“I just don’t know that I’ve _earned—_ ”

“You can cook while you’re here, if that will make you feel more like you’re doing your fair share of work.”

“Okay, that sounds better. Well. This is cool, uh… I’m looking forward to getting started.”

“Me too. Truly. I’ll see you on Friday evening, Dean.”

“See you soon, Cas.”

Dean ends the call, smiling to himself and staring at his phone until the screen goes black.

“Wow,” Sam says, startling the _hell_ out of Dean. “You really just completely forgot I was here, didn’t you?”

“What? No, shut the hell up,” Dean says, even though he did. He didn’t realize Sam was still there eating the rest of his damn meal.

“Hey, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m glad things worked out during your incredibly platonic conversation with your bro, man.”

“Sam, I swear to _God_.”

“I thought you were going to tell him you _loved him_ at the end of that call.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean groans, shoving his food to the side so he can bury his face in his arms on the table.

“Are you going to eat the rest of your steak?”

  


 


	9. Chapter 9

(Friday)

  


Aside from therapy on Wednesday, Dean doesn’t get up to all that much for the rest of the week. He makes sure he has the right tools, buys a bus ticket online with Sam’s credit card, looks up all the stuff he’s doing online to make sure he hasn’t forgotten how to use a drain snake or hold a hammer or what the fuck ever.

The bus Dean’s taking this time leaves at around three in the morning, and since the idea of walking that far in the middle of the night kind of freaks Dean out, he gets a ride from Sam.

As it turns out, Sam is _weird_ at three in the morning. He hasn’t finished sleeping for the night, but he’s alert. Like, too alert. And chipper. He chats the whole way to the bus station, saying how different everything looks this time of night, how riding a bus sounds fun, and “maybe we should go on a bus trip, Dean!” and how he feels like he should go for a jog when he gets home.

_Weird._

“Hey, so, I hope you have fun this weekend, I’m so glad to see you being social,” Sam says earnestly. They’re idling at a red light, and there’s just enough streetlamp light for Dean to see the big sappy puppy eyes Sam is giving him. “I know Jo and I were trying to get you come to Bobby’s party, but that was us kind of making your issues about us, and not thinking about what _you_ wanted or needed, I’m sorry about that. And… the other night… what you said about me waiting for you to be normal again… it’s not true, Dean. I’m happy to have you home, just as you are. You don’t need to be anything or anyone for me, okay?”

“It’s okay, Sammy, I know you guys just miss me. Besides, Henriksen says it’s important to be pushed once in awhile. Or something like that. He said it different… therapist-y. Something about doing what’s right for me, but really considering the little nudges I get before shooting them down.”

“That’s awesome, Dean.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m looking forward to doing some work on this guy’s house, honestly. This is way better than showing up to haul lumber or slap a coat of paint on, I’m really going to fix this place up,” Dean says, patting the bag in his lap.

“Take some before and after pictures!” Sam says excitedly.

“Dude, you need to chill.”

“I’m chill! I’m excited, but I’m chill. I’m the chillest. Chilliest? Most chill? How do I say that?”

Dean just stares at his brother.

  


*

  


  


The journey to Champaign passes about the same as it did the first time. Lots of Dean avoiding eye contact, headphones on instead of earbuds, pretending the world mostly isn’t there.

The one time he actually takes in his surroundings, he sees two older women gesturing emphatically at him from across the room at the bus station in Kansas City. Awesome. People recognizing him, just what he wants. They look like they’re considering coming over to talk to him, so Dean quickly pretends to take a call on his phone until the women lose interest.

Eventually he reaches Champaign. He didn’t sleep a wink on the bus, or get much sleep before he left, so he’s practically a zombie on his feet. The stuff he brought feels ridiculously heavy, and he can’t believe he has two damn hours of walking before he’ll be at Castiel’s house. God damn, he’d love some caffeine right about now. He mostly stays away from caffeine, though. After years without, he’s got no damn tolerance for the stuff, and anything more than the caffeine in a bar of chocolate gets his brain on the uncomfortable and anxious side of “active”, which leads to taking a sedative, which defeats the entire purpose of the caffeine anyway.

He’s exiting the bus station and debating on whether or not he should try to figure out the city bus line when someone speaks from next to him.

“Hello, Dean.”

It’s slightly ridiculous, the way Dean’s heart goes _thwumpthwumpthwump_ in his chest at the sound of Castiel’s voice, but maybe he’s just startled.

“Uh… heya, Cas. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I borrowed my sister’s car for the weekend, in case we need to make more trips to the store. I thought it would be silly to not use it to pick you up.”

Castiel starts toward the parking lot and Dean follows, smiling. “I gotta say, I’m relieved to see you, man. I’m fucking tired as fuck right now.”

“You look it— ah, no offense,” Castiel says, glancing back at Dean apologetically.

“Well now I feel like you’re calling me ugly, thanks,” Dean jokes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you are of course a very attractive man,” Castiel says. Dean trips right over a fucking parking curb and falls against a car that thankfully doesn’t seem to have an alarm. Fucking hell. Castiel glances back at him, looking concerned. He reaches over and takes Dean’s duffel bag. “We’re almost to the car, you certainly need some sleep.”

“I should have napped before I left for the bus. I wasn’t even doing anything, just flopped over on my bed watching Frasier in my underwear.” Why did he bring up being in his _underwear_?

They reach Castiel’s sister’s car, and Castiel hefts the bag into the backseat while Dean crawls into the passenger side. “Well, you can sleep soon,” he says, getting in the car and buckling himself in. “Do you need to sleep outside?”

His tone isn’t judgmental at all, but Dean still feels embarrassed. “I don’t think so, I’m fucking exhausted. It’s easy to fall asleep in my bed at home if I’m really _really_ tired, or I’m on a sedative or something. Normal nights though, I usually end up in the backyard.”

“You take sedatives, then?” Castiel asks as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Uh, yeah, um… sometimes if I’m having a bad day. Too much anxiety, or if I can’t sleep even outside, shit like that. I’m not like… _dangerous,_ or something.”

Castiel chuckles. “I’m not worried about you being dangerous, Dean. I take sedatives too.”

“Yeah? What for? Or is that rude? That’s rude. Sorry, my manners are somewhere in the South China Sea, I think.”

“Generalized anxiety, nothing spectacular. It’s rather mild really, but most nights I take an over the counter sleep aid, and some days are certainly Xanax Days.”

“Yeah, some days are Xanax Days for me too. Or Seroquel Days. Or Trazodone Days.”

“Wow, that’s quite a cocktail.”

“Jesus, I don’t take them at the same _time,_ they just affect me differently, so I take whatever helps most with that situation, you know? I don’t use them all that often, I was drugged up the wazoo when I first got back, and I’m not in a rush to recapture that particular feeling.”

“Drugged up the wazoo?”

“Yeah, not a great time. Don’t actually remember it all that well, honestly.”

“Because you were drugged up the wazoo.”

“Stop saying wazoo, Cas.”

“You said it first.”

  


*

  


  


Dean nods off a little on the way to Castiel’s, just enough for his brain to have a moment of panicked confusion when the car stops. He feels like a zombie and doesn’t put up any protest when Castiel insists Dean take his bed. He sits up long enough to unlace his boots and kick them to the floor, then he’s burrowing under Castiel’s blankets and letting sleep grab hold of him with both arms.

  


 


	10. Chapter 10

(Saturday)

 

The first thing Dean notices when he wakes is the faint smell of vanilla. Artificial, but pleasant. He wonders what it’s from. Castiel’s detergent? Maybe his body wash? Shampoo? Is there a candle in here somewhere? Either way, it’s nice. Dean feels like it somehow grounds him in the world to wake up with his senses engaged in such a subtle way. Maybe he should put nice smelling stuff in his room. Or his tent. Whichever. Jesus, this bed is comfortable. If Dean can get to a place in his life where he’s sleeping indoors every night, he wants a bed this comfortable.

He lies there for a few minutes, just being comfortable, mind surprisingly and blissfully still. He should get up, though, find out what time it is.

Dean hears the faint sounds of clicking and typing when he gets up, and he pads out to the living room. Castiel is in his pajamas, wrapped up in a blanket and sitting on the couch with a laptop balanced in his lap. He’s… playing World of Warcraft.

“My brother plays that game,” Dean says. Castiel lets out some odd, startled sound, jerking to turn around and getting tangled up in his blanket in the process.

“I, uh… it’s, ah… you know, a way to pass the time,” Castiel stammers, closing his laptop and scrambling to his feet. His hair’s going in about thirty different directions and he has a crease on his face from whatever he was sleeping on, so Dean assumes he hasn’t been up long.

“So, you’re like… a nerd, huh?” Dean says, smirking.

“It’s a hobby. People have hobbies. People play games. It’s just something I picked up after I… lost the majority of my friends,” Castiel says with a sigh.

Oops, this isn’t fun anymore. “Wow, how’d you lose your friends?”

“Ah… a breakup. We… my ex and I... had many mutual friends. His group had become my group, but when we broke up, it became pretty clear that they were still _his_ friends first and foremost. Lines drawn in the sand, betrayed feelings, it was all very high school. It’s fine, this was over a year ago, I just haven’t really made new friends since. Except you, of course.”

Dean feels some warm, fuzzy feelings, and he has no idea if they’re from Castiel calling him a friend, or from learning Castiel dates men. He plonks next to Castiel on the couch, attempting a sympathetic frown and probably failing due to the stupid warm fuzzies.

“So, bad breakup?”

“We worked together at my old job. A design firm of sorts. Promotion time was coming for one of the two of us, and I was the favorite, and he… threw me under the bus, I suppose. Casually mentioned mistakes I’d made, the time I said I was sick but actually went on vacation with him, even mentioning I was on anxiety medication. Nothing to get me _fired_ , but I certainly did not get the promotion. There was no staying together after that. He was apologetic, he said he got carried away, and… I feel like it was a sincere apology, but... it was such an ugly thing to do to a loved one, I couldn’t even look him in the face. I mean how am I supposed to trust someone like that?” Castiel shrugs and sighs. “Anyway, the friends I thought would be on my side turned out to be offended that I wouldn’t take him back, that I was willing to throw away three years over a ‘mistake’. I suppose I can’t blame them, they were his friends first. It hurt though.”

“Damn, Cas, that’s fucking harsh, I’m sorry.”

“I’m mostly over it. The loss of my friendships hurt more than the breakup. I really, really expected they’d be with me, and they weren’t. But… I mean I’m not _alone,_ I have my siblings… a close friend of mine that’s moved to Chicago… and so on. But I did end up with more free time, so… anyway. Computer games.”

“I had kind of a shitty breakup too,” Dean says, pulling his feet up onto the couch. “We were engaged, this was before the i-island… and we had a huge fight. Massive fight. About what, I have no fucking idea anymore. I know it was something small, but then it turned into something big, brought a lot of problems that she and I had been ignoring to light, and… the trip to Thailand was partly to clear my head.”

“Oh… dear.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t even gotten to Thailand before I realized things were gonna end. She didn’t want kids and she felt like that probably wouldn’t change, and I _did_ want kids, and… there was other stuff, but that was a big one. We just weren’t working. So, I was going to break things off when I got home. But of course, I didn’t make it home.”

Castiel nods sadly.

“The fucked up thing is that… she’s got a kid. A little boy, he’s one. She met someone I think it was thirteen months after I disappeared, they fell in love, got married, and had a kid, when before…” Dean sighs. “I don’t know. Kinda sucks thinking about how my life might have been different if I’d just stayed home and tried harder to work things out. Maybe we would have stayed together, maybe I’d have a kid, maybe the sight of airplanes wouldn’t make me burst into fucking tears.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Or, maybe we would have stayed together and been fucking miserable, who knows.”

“The ‘what ifs’ will drive you mad if you’re not careful,” Castiel says.

“Yeah, Henriksen— he’s my shrink, he tells me to be mindful of getting trapped in the what ifs and maybes.”

“Are you able to?”

“Mostly. Back on the i-i-island was another story, though. Lotta free time, lots of time to think about what I’d be doing at that moment if I just hadn’t gotten on that plane,” Dean says. “I do know one thing that’d be different, for sure. You wouldn’t know your brother is alive, so that’s cool.”

Castiel smiles. “Silver lining.”

Dean just barely holds himself back from saying something about the lining being blue because of Castiel’s eyes, which… Jesus fucking _Christ_. Fortunately, Dean’s stomach makes a very conspicuous rumbling sound before he can embarrass himself.

Castiel chuckles then. “Hungry?”

“Uh… apparently, yeesh.”

“Well, I um…” Castiel looks a little shy, suddenly. “I got some groceries yesterday, if you’re still amenable to cooking? I don’t want to presume—”

“Cas, not to get all formal on you, but… it would be my pleasure.”

 

 

*

 

 

After sending Sam a quick “I’m still alive” text and a short trip to the bathroom, Dean goes to the kitchen to get started on breakfast while Castiel goes back to the task he was apparently in the middle of in his game. He mutters something about having to “find a new tank”, and Dean has no idea what the hell that means, are there tanks in World of Warcraft? Dean thought it was about dragons and wizards and shit.

Castiel has better ingredients this time around, and Dean’s jazzed to see eggs and bacon are among them. He’s tempted to try for something fancy, but he’s hungry _now,_ so he fries up some bacon and sunnyside-up eggs, hacks up a potato for some potato hash, and tosses in some dried herbs from the pantry.

Maybe twenty minutes go by, Dean’s just about got everything ready when Castiel comes shuffling in, still in his pajamas. They’re a soft, powder blue. They bring out Castiel’s eyes, not that Dean’s noticing that kind of thing.

“It’s so nice to smell food in the house,” Castiel says, grabbing plates out of one of the cabinets.

“Just earning my fee,” Dean says, nudging Castiel with his elbow.

“You really don’t _need_ to do this, but… I appreciate it just the same.”

Breakfast is fairly quiet, but pleasant. Castiel seems pretty absorbed in eating and shaking off some residual grogginess, and Dean’s feeling contemplative about how comforting he finds this domestic setup. Eventually, breakfast is over. Dean and Castiel trade off using Castiel’s shower, and Dean brushes his teeth and gets dressed and ready to start the day.

“So… what should I be doing, while you’re working? Do I need to help? Should I stay away? I’ve never really had someone work on my house before,” Castiel says.

“I don’t know… the people on Craigslist usually just go do their own thing, but they’re strangers. Whatever works for you. If you wanna watch, or go play World of Warcraft, or something else… I’m cool. I can holler if I need you.”

“Maybe I’ll just finish helping my guild try to get through this dungeon, and then I’ll see where you’re at?”

Dean smiles and nods. “I have no idea what any of that means, but sounds good.”

 

*

 

The first thing Dean does is unclog the drain in Castiel’s bathroom sink. It’s a stubborn clog, but easily remedied with the heavy duty drain snake Castiel bought. There’s a lot of noise when working the apparatus, but it goes relatively quickly.

There’s still a lot of typing and clicking from the other room, and Dean likes it. It falls under the category of “good” white noise for him. The soft, gentle clicks, the repetitive typing. It’s good, it’s soothing. Something Dean could fall asleep to, even.

After the drain, Dean wants to work on the lawn. But it’s barely after eight on a Saturday, Dean doesn’t want to be that asshole that wakes up a bunch of sleeping weekenders with the grating sound of a lawn mower early in the morning. Instead he decides to fix the back screen door. Dean doesn’t even know what happened with it, but it’s dented on the lower end enough that it won’t close properly. He spends about forty minutes fixing it. Instinct tells him to just bang it really hard with the hammer he brought, or the mallet in Castiel’s tool set, but he takes it slow. No sense in possibly wrecking the frame more. He’s careful and methodical, and takes the door off entirely before hammering it flat. He gets it almost perfectly flat before he puts it back on the door frame, and it closes great.

“Wonderful!” Castiel exclaims from behind him. Dean jumps, startled. “I spent my entire summer unable to have this screen door open, it was terribly annoying when I wanted to get more airflow in the house. Most of the windows don’t have screens on them, so if I want to get air circulating in my house during hot days, it means I’ll be letting flies and bees in too.”

“What happened to the door, anyway?”

“I actually don’t know for certain. I had my siblings and their spouses over, I heard a loud noise, and when I came to check, the door was messed up and no one would admit to doing it,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes. “I assume it was my brother Lucifer, he wouldn’t look me in the eye after.”

“Lucifer.”

Castiel quirks a small smile. “Lucifer.”

“Well with a name like that, I’d assume it was him too.”

“Now Dean, a name isn’t everything. Lucifer isn’t the devil, just a rambunctious narcissist. With control issues. And a tempter. And an inability to admit when he’s wrong,” Castiel says, letting out a long, drawn out sigh.

“I can hear the love.”

“He might be… tempestuous, but he and my other brother and my sisters were there for me when my parents… and Gabriel were not, through some pretty hard times in my life. So, I can forgive him for probably messing up my door and then lying about it.”

“That’s sweet. Yeah, Sammy could fuck up a lot and I’d forgive him for most of it. Aside from a handful of cousins in Michigan, he’s my only blood relative left. Got a bit of a surrogate family, though, so it’s not like I’m alone in the world. My ‘Uncle’ Bobby always says that family don’t end in blood.”

“Very wise words.”

“He also says blood don’t _make_ you family. Which is why I never talk to my asshole cousins.”

“That’s why I don’t talk to my parents.”

“Well, this is cheerful. So, uh… how did your… dungeon… go?”

“My connection lagged and everyone died.”

“Uh, that seems harsh.”

Castiel chuckles. “I’m the healer, everyone else is on the offense. Without an active healer, things can fall apart quickly in dungeons. When my internet connection lagged, there was no one to keep them alive in the battle, so they died. We’re going to try again later. It’s good to take a break after an upset like that. Last week our tank had the same lagging issue, so the boss barrelled straight after me, killed me, and the party was wiped out in seconds.” Castiel grimaces. “I’m embarrassing myself, aren’t I?”

“Cas,” Dean says, putting a hand on his shoulder, “my closest friends for four years were plastic chess pieces, I’m not going to make fun of you.” When Castiel sags in relief, Dean adds, “old me would have though.”

“That’s very comforting, thank you.”

“Okay, new me probably would too. Sometimes I bag on my brother for LARPing.”

“Your brother… LARPs?”

“Oh jeez, don’t tell me you’re into that too. I mean hey, I’m cool with it, but I expect to see your costume.”

“Oh, no… no, that’s not really my sort of thing. A bit too involved. With World of Warcraft I can step away, do other things. LARPing is involved and sometimes very physical.”

“So you _used to_ do it then.”

“I might have tried it a few times.”

“Do you have a costume?”

“No, I borrowed one for the event.”

“Pictures?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Maybe.”

“Well, let’s see them?”

“I don’t think so.”

Dean pouts. “Come on! I thought we were becoming _friends,_ Cas.”

“Well, you’ll have to wait until we’re better friends, I suppose.”

“Like maybe when I cross some more stuff off my list?” Dean says, fishing the list of tasks out of his back pocket.

Castiel chuckles. “Sure, you cross off some more of these, and I’ll think about letting you see me in my faerie costume.”

“It was a _faerie_ costume?” Dean stuffs the list back in his pocket. “I’ve got work to do.”

 

 

*

 

 

Dean deals with several tasks over the course of their Saturday. He fixes Castiel’s wobbly coffee table with nothing more than a hammer, a nail, and a piece of cork board, he fixes the leak under Castiel’s kitchen sink and gets rusty water all over his t-shirt and jeans and hair, then he takes a damn shower. After that, he goes to investigate the weird smell by Castiel’s back porch, finds and clears away a dead… something… and then takes yet another shower.

“I made sandwiches,” Castiel says when Dean comes out of the bathroom, “though I suppose it’s unlikely that you’re hungry.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s fine, I can eat. As long as it’s not tuna salad.”

“It’s not. You don’t like tuna salad? I thought everyone loved tuna salad,” Castiel says as Dean follows him into the kitchen.

“Kind of in an anti-seafood phase,” Dean says.

“Even when it’s swimming in mayonnaise?”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought about it. Just got sick and emotional every time I tried eating seafood, so I stopped.” Dean sighs. “Man, I used to love popcorn shrimp, too.”

“Well, maybe someday you can have popcorn shrimp again.”

Dean grins as he sits at the table in the kitchen. “That’s the dream, Cas.”

Lunch is pleasant. Dean talks about how he’ll be able to tackle most of the stuff on his list today and tomorrow, but some of the bigger things will have to wait.

“I think painting your house, working on your bike, and maybe patching the roof will have to wait until next weekend. I mean I could probably do it this weekend, but I think you should give some thought to what color you want your house to be. Tomorrow I can blast the house with the pressure washer you rented, then next Saturday I can lay down primer, then next Sunday get to painting. Or… I mean it doesn’t have to be _next_ Saturday, I just mean the next Saturday that I’m over.”

Castiel smiles from behind his roast beef sandwich. “I’m fine with next Saturday.”

“Oh… well, cool. Me too.”

 

*

 

After lunch Dean gets to work on the creaky step on the porch, and Castiel decides to take his sister’s car to the hardware store to get paint swatches. The step is an easy fix, it just needs to be nailed down, so Dean takes care of that, then goes to fetch Castiel’s ladder so he can attack the crooked gutter hanging off the top of the house and then clean it out. A car pulls up to the house, but it’s not Castiel. Dean’s not sure whether to greet them or not, so he just keeps working.

“Don’t I know you?”

Dean looks up from where he’s trying to get the ladder in a secure place. There’s a man standing there. He’s in his forties, with dark hair, green eyes, and a confused expression.

“Uh… no, I don’t think so,” Dean says, sighing inwardly.

“You’re a friend of Castiel’s?”

“Kinda, he hired me to fix some stuff around the house.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” the man exclaims, clapping his hands together. “He told me he had plans this weekend, but I assumed he was just spending it on his couch playing computer games. You know, he’s really let this place fall into disrepair this past year, not that he’s ever been big with upkeep. He’ll keep the inside of his house nice and tidy, but the outside ends up like… _this,_ ” the man says, gesturing.

“You must be one of his brothers,” Dean says, smirking.

“Michael Novak,” the man says, holding his hand out. Dean takes the offered hand and shakes it, mind instantly wondering if he’s shaking it for too long or too short. How long are handshakes supposed to last, exactly? There’s probably a page on Wikipedia that could tell him. “And you are?” Michael adds.

“Oh, uh. Dean. Uh, Winchester.”

“I swear, that name sounds familiar. Have you ever been to the Champaign Country Club?”

Dean snorts. “Not really the country club type, man.”

“Did you go to the University of Illinois?”

“Not really the university type either,” Dean says, feeling awkward.

“How about—” Michael stops suddenly, grimacing.

“You remembered.”

“I uh, I think Castiel e-mailed me about you a month or two ago. He was, uh… fascinated with your tale… a man living in solitude, rescued through the hands of fate, and so on. Has he recognized you? He must have, I think he has a newspaper clipping about you in his wallet.”

Well _that_ hadn’t come up yet. “Oh, yeah. I mean… that’s how we met. I brought him a package. From the uh... the... the island.”

“A package? The one from Gabriel?”

Dean nods.

“How _extraordinary_! All Castiel told us was that the package was lost in the mail and recently recovered, he didn’t mention you at all! What an incredible turn of events… to think you had that with you all that time, then brought it all the way here.”

“Yeah, I—”

“I apologize, it’s really none of my business. I’m just here to see my brother, but if he’s occupied…”

“He’s at the hardware store looking at paint samples, gonna work on that next weekend.”

“Hmm… in that case, do you mind if I take a before picture?” Michael says, fetching a phone from his pocket.

“By all means,” Dean says, stepping to the side, Michael takes several steps back, takes a few photos, then smiles at Dean.

“Well, since I know Castiel’s not spending the weekend cooped up, I guess I’ll be on my way. I have dinner plans with the wife in a few hours anyway. It was good to meet you, Dean, good luck on your project. And thank you for bringing Castiel his parcel.”

Before Dean can think of the appropriate way to say goodbye, Michael is in his car and pulling away from the house.

That wasn’t so bad. It was a little awkward, but not so bad. Maybe Dean can get better at this again some day.

Not _today,_ but some day.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel is gone a long time. Dean fixes and cleans the gutters, confirms there’s a small hole in the roof, then patches the hole with materials he brought from home. In all that time, Castiel doesn’t come back. Dean’s taking a break on the couch when Castiel finally returns, and Dean sees why he was so busy.

“ _Dude._ ”

Castiel has the paint swatches he left to get, but he also has flower pots, potting soil, starter flowers, a watering can, a piece of particle board, garden tools, and a bunch of other random shit.

“Get carried away, did we?” Dean says, eyeing Castiel’s many, many purchases.

“Have you ever been to Home Depot? It has _everything_.”

“I worked in construction, I’ve been to a Home Depot or two.”

“I went there for the swatches, but then I saw the particle board, and I realized that might help you with the step, or the hole in the fence… and then I saw the _garden supplies,_ and I thought maybe the interior could use some color… so, anyway, I got distracted.”

“You missed your brother,” Dean says, sifting through one of the plastic bags Castiel set on the coffee table. What the hell is he planning on doing with utility hooks?

“My brother? Was it Michael? It was Michael wasn’t it.”

“He thought you were in here planning to play World of Warcraft all weekend. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, by the way.” Dean wants to bring up the newspaper clipping Michael said was in Castiel’s wallet, but he doesn’t. He wouldn’t know how to anyway.

“Ah, so he came to drag me out of the house. He worries about my social life like a nattering mother hen, sometimes.”

“Awww, he’s just looking out for you.”

“I’m in my thirties, and a functioning adult, I don’t need him to make sure I’m getting sun and socialization.”

“Them’s the breaks.”

“I suspect he’s worried Gabriel’s return will cause some sort of… upset in our relationship. Perhaps he’s worried Gabriel will return and usurp him as my favored brother. My brothers are all competitive children.”

“Are you a competitive child?”

“I channel it into the game.”

“Are you one of those people that gets… super angry while playing? Last month Sammy was yelling all pissed off, and when I came to see what was up, he said someone had ‘ninja’d his loot’, I don’t even know what the fuck that _means,_ but Sam was seeing red about it.”

“It’s a _very_ egregious sin. Taking a prize meant for someone else in your dungeon or raid group. I got kicked out of my first guild for that. I was new, I didn’t know any better.” Castiel actually sounds deeply ashamed, which is fucking adorable. Dean’s not _totally_ sure what a guild is, but he can guess. “In any case, I wouldn’t say I get… super… angry. Perhaps a little heated. Perhaps I’ve yelled at my computer or cursed up a storm in voice chat a few times. It’s ah… passion. Over my hobby.”

Dean smirks. “Do you tell people that you fucked their moms like those assholes on Xbox Live?”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“So that’s a no.”

“It’s a no.”

“Just checking.”

  
  


*

  
  


There are several holes in Castiel’s wooden fence that Dean patches up with the particle board. It’s not pretty, and it certainly doesn’t match, but if they paint the fence it will look better, Dean thinks. He stands near the back door, squinting and trying to imagine what color would be good for the fence. White would be awful, the solid lattice would look terrible as a white wall… maybe tan? Brown? Something grassy? Dean should look at Castiel’s paint swatches.

“Would you be interested in going out for dinner?” Castiel says next to him.

“Out, like… out?” Dean says awkwardly.

Castiel lets out a soft sound, Dean can’t tell if it’s amusement or exasperation. “You’re worrying that I’m hitting on you again.”

Worrying isn’t the word Dean would use. “I’m just clarifying.”

“Regardless, my intentions are platonic. You’ve mentioned not getting out much, so I understand if you’d rather not…”

“No, it’s… I can give it a shot?”

Castiel nods. “Good. You’ve been working hard all day, it’s time to relax and have some good food. I haven’t been to my favorite restaurant in a while, I’d love to bring you.”

“It’s not a seafood restaurant, right?”

“I mean, there’s… seafood dishes, but it’s not a seafood place. Lots of chicken and steak and whatnot. But I suppose there might be someone nearby eating seafood…” Castiel frowns, pulling his phone out. “Maybe we could go somewhere that—”

Dean reaches out, putting his hand over Castiel’s phone. “It’s okay, Cas. I wanna go to your favorite place,” he says, smiling timidly. “Getting a whiff of some salmon or whatever isn’t going to kill me.”

Castiel nods slowly. He’s looking at Dean with something Dean can’t really put a name to, but he likes it. “In that case, let’s go get some dinner, Dean.”

  
  


*

  
  


They’re at a restaurant named Big Grove Tavern. Dean showered for the _fourth_ time in one day, and after realizing he really didn’t bring enough clean clothes, he borrowed a shirt from Castiel. It’s a soft, powder-blue henley that probably looks _amazing_ on Castiel, who came dressed in a dark blue polo that fits… nicely on him.

Yep, Dean’s having some thoughts.

The restaurant is nice, although it’s pretty crowded with people eager for a Saturday night out. Dean’s been skimming the menu, but he has no idea what he wants to order. Something with beef? Something cheap? Is Castiel paying?

“So, what’s your favorite thing to order?” Dean tries.

“The burger is wonderful. It’s a mixture of beef, pork, and bison… very tender and juicy. I often order one, cooked medium… it comes with fries, but I usually get a side to split if I’m here with someone. The poutine, or the homemade pretzels…”

“God _damn,_ that sounds good. Okay, I definitely want a burger,” Dean says.

They both order medium burgers, and decide to split an order of onion rings on the side. The food is good. Dean lets out a few embarrassing moans when he’s eating his burger, but so does Castiel. Dean’s tempted to have a beer, but Castiel says he hates drinking even one beer if he’ll be driving, and Dean doesn’t want to be the only one mildly intoxicated.

They mostly chat about the house as they dine, improvements Dean’s made, what they’ll work on tomorrow, what they’ll do the next time Dean comes back. The conversation turns to family, and Dean’s really not sure how but he blurts out, of all things, “Did I tell you I have a grave?”

Castiel pauses, onion ring halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I have a grave. Nothing fancy. Just one of those flat headstones. Next to my mom and my dad. When my dad died, Sammy wanted to have the family together, even though they didn’t have a body for me. I was… missing, presumed dead. So Sam did all the stuff to have me legally declared dead, so he could have ‘me’ next to my parents. There’s a coffin, and it’s got some of my favorite albums, and this pretty nice burgundy leather jacket I used to wear a lot, and some of my plaid shirts… my GED certificate, my guitar, my apron, my favorite cast iron pan… it’s all in the coffin and buried. Apparently it’s not that easy to undo that, so uh… kind of have to wait a while to get my shit back. Kind of wish I had my guitar. My dad bought me that.”

“Wow, that’s…”

“Yeah, pretty dark, huh? I have a _grave._ I’ve been there. To see my parents. It’s pretty creepy, honestly.”

“It sounds like it. You really have a wealth of unique experiences, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, staring down at his plate. “What about you? Got any… weird stuff?”

“What qualifies as ‘weird stuff’?”

“Oh, you know… awkward baggage that you shouldn’t be sharing with someone you barely know, like I just did.”

Castiel smiles. “I do. It’s not exactly cheerful dinner conversation, but if it will help you feel on more equal footing…”

“By all means.”

“Well… I’ve already shared my story about my boyfriend screwing me out of a job. Oh, I’ve been stabbed.”

“ _Stabbed_?”

“Yes. It hurt.”

“Who fucking _stabbed_ you?”

“A very angry, very homophobic man in Chicago,” Castiel says. He sounds pretty at peace with it, Dean wonders if it’s meds, or inner peace, or something else. “It was a handful of years ago. I’d gone out for dinner and drinks with an old flame, we were affectionate… the man didn’t like what he saw. He attacked me in the parking lot while my date was in the restroom.”

“Holy shit, Cas.”

“It didn’t… I healed. Sometimes though, it’s hard for me to be affectionate in public. It’s bothered some boyfriends, how sometimes I won’t hold hands or kiss in public spaces. Not always… but often. Sometimes it’s hard for me to come out to new people, too. My parents reacted poorly to my sexuality, but… it wasn’t until the attack that I worried about telling new people. Sometimes it’s easier to keep that to myself until I know someone better.”

“You told me.”

Castiel shrugs. “I feel safe with you.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s trying not to grin, this is a serious discussion after all.

“Yes.”

“Well, I feel safe with you too.” Dean has this urge to play footsie with Castiel under the table or some shit. But this isn’t a date. Just two guys sharing a meal and past traumas.

“I suppose we’re a bit more even now, right?”

“Yeah… I feel so broken sometimes, it’s good to know I’m not alone, I guess.”

Castiel shakes his head. He reaches across the table, puts one hand over Dean’s. “I’m not broken, Dean, and neither are you. We’re… scuffed, we’re damaged, but we’re still going, aren’t we?”

Dean stares at where Castiel’s hand is over his. “That’s true. Still living to fight another day, and uh… fix stuff.”

“My house has been quietly sliding into disrepair for a long time, and I never took care of it. Sometimes I was too busy, sometimes I was too lazy, sometimes I was too overwhelmed by the idea of tackling it all. So I ignored it. I stopped using my screen door, I moved my bed so the ceiling would stop leaking on me when it rained, I got used to the sound of that creaking step on the front porch. I stopped caring about it. After all, the inside of the house is mostly fine. I was okay with it. But now that you’ve swooped in and fixed so much, it’s like this weight is lifting off of me, and I didn’t even know it was there.”

“I didn’t swoop in, you _hired_ me.”

“If you hadn’t come by, I wouldn’t have hired anyone. It would still be as it was the day you arrived.” Castiel sighs, looking annoyed with himself and withdrawing his hand. “My point is, sometimes we get used to the damage, and we learn to adapt, and that’s fine… but that doesn’t mean it can’t or won’t get better. My house will probably never be like new again, but it can be something I’m content with, inside and out.”

“Shit, Cas. That was deep as hell.”

“Yes, I’m a very profound man,” Castiel says, voice bone dry. “Now, how do you feel about dessert?”

  
  


*

  
  


After some fucking delicious rhubarb hand pies, Dean and Castiel go back to Castiel’s house. There’s something kind of weird in the air, but considering how many times Dean’s mistakenly thought Castiel was _interested,_ the ‘something in the air’ is probably in Dean’s head. They walk up to the house from the car, and Dean smiles when he puts his foot down on the second step and hears no creak.

“Hear that? No squeaking.”

“You’ve done good work,” Castiel says, taking his keys out to unlock the door.

“It was actually the easiest thing I did all day. One nail.”

Castiel looks back at Dean, the arch of his eyebrow plainly visible in the glow from the porchlight. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I feel… foolish for not doing that myself.”

“Well, it might have taken you longer. I mean... I was a _professional,_ Cas. It could have taken you two, even three minutes to do what I accomplished in one. You were right to wait for help.”

Castiel pushes the door open. “I hadn’t noticed this before, but you’re a bit of a dick, aren’t you?”

“I was before, and thanks to your rousing speech at the restaurant, I’m starting to think some day I can be one again.” They’re back in the living room now, and when Dean flicks on the light, Castiel is staring at him in a way Dean can only describe as intense. Dean slumps slightly. “Dude, I’m sorry, I was only kidding around.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You are consistently misreading me.”

“In my defense, you’re a person. I’m better at reading crabs, prawns… coconuts… you’re gonna have to cut me some slack.”

“I will,” Castiel says, “don’t worry.”

  
  


*

  
  


Dean goes to bed smiling, but it’s no surprise to him when he just can’t fall asleep. Over ninety minutes pass while Dean tries to relax and fall asleep on this comfortable couch. It just won’t happen. Wanting it won’t make it happen, won’t stop him from spending the night staring at the ceiling, or stop his back from aching slightly after he goes outside to sleep on the ground.

He gets up off the couch and puts his shoes on. There’s a temptation to go and find out if Castiel has a spare blanket, but even after their conversation tonight it’s still hard to imagine going to him and saying “I need to borrow a blanket so I can sleep in your backyard”, so he’s not going to. He gathers some of his dirty clothes to use as a pillow, and heads out into the backyard.

The worst part of this isn’t the stiff joints he feels most mornings after doing this, or the bug bites he sometimes ends up with, or waking up with the sun right in his face… it’s the _shame._ He’s ashamed, even if Sam doesn’t say anything judgmental when Dean comes crawling out of his tent in the morning. He’s ashamed that he can’t just sleep in a bed or a couch, he’s ashamed to have this weird habit, the most obvious sign of his baggage that he’s too embarrassed to even tell his therapist about. But the shame doesn’t change the fact that it’s easier to sleep this way, so once again Dean finds himself lying on his back in Castiel’s backyard, eyes on the branches of the slippery elm tree he’s underneath.

The feeling of shame only grows when once again, Dean notices Castiel coming outside to join him. He’s got a sleeping bag bundled in his arms, and when he gets closer, he unravels it to lay it over Dean.

“It’s getting chillier out here at night,” he tuts in disapproval.

“Summer’s barely over,” Dean grouses, “I’m fine.”

Castiel nods. “I’m sure you are.” He kneels and looks Dean in the eyes. There’s not enough light out for Dean to see the blue in Castiel’s eyes, he misses it a little. “I know you’re uncomfortable with me seeing you like this, Dean, but if it’s alright, I’d like to stay.”

“There’s no need for both of us to sleep on the ground, man, just go back to bed.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in bed in future days, I’m sure.”

Dean stares back at Castiel for a long moment, trying to fight the shame, the feeling that Castiel needs to go, that no one should look at Dean while he’s being _abnormal_. “Yeah,” he says finally, “okay.”

Castiel gets under the sleeping bag with Dean, and Dean scoots to the side so they can share the duffel bag “pillow”.

The last time Castiel spent the night outside with Dean, they chatted. It was mostly inane shit, things like the weather, Dean’s bus ride over, what Dean saw on his long-ass walk from the motel. This time they don’t talk. They lie side by side on the ground, listening to the sounds of nighttime; crickets, cars, a distant, passing voice once in a while. Quite a bit of time passes, and Dean doesn’t fall asleep. He’s a little too focused on Castiel next to him, the slow sound of his breaths, the small amount of heat his body puts out.

He’s weirdly nervous, which is maybe why he suddenly says, “I think I kind of wanted it to be a date.”

There’s a hitch in the soft, even breaths coming from next to him. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but his fingers cross the grassy space between them until he’s holding Dean’s hand, and they stay that way until Dean falls asleep.

  
  


*

  
  


He dreams of sleeping on the couch, which is a bit on the nose, maybe, but it’s a comfortable dream regardless.

 


	12. Chapter 12

(Sunday)

  


  


Dean’s making french toast pancakes when Castiel comes into the kitchen, shower fresh and eyeing the stove with interest.

“You’re still good with next weekend, right?” Dean says. “Or do you want to wait?”

“Next weekend sounds perfect to me. I was thinking of borrowing my sister’s air mattress. Anna goes camping all the time, she has a great air mattress.”

Dean pauses in lifting a pancake out of the pan. “For me?”

“Bad idea?”

“No, I just… hadn’t really thought about that. I think it’d be a good thing to try, see if I can sleep if I’m outside but on a nice comfy bed.”

“Perhaps we can approach it incrementally…”

“Until one day I’m snoring away in a bed without sleeping pills?”

“It’s worth a try, right?” Castiel says.

“Absolutely, Cas. I think it’s an awesome idea. Sammy’s gonna be mad he didn’t think of it himself.”

“Wonderful! In that case, I’ll have it by Friday.”

They don’t talk about the night before. It’s not awkward or anything, but they’re not quite addressing it. They shared a moment, a nice moment even, but they’re not really picking at it right now. But, there’s also a moment when their ankles bump underneath Castiel’s little dining table, and Castiel doesn’t move his foot away, and neither does Dean.

It’s ridiculous how easily they’ve slipped into… whatever this is. Two guys with a mutual romantic interest. Dean likes it. He’s pretty sure he deserves something easy. There was a time when Dean would have been weird about it. Playing games instead of being honest about what he wants, or getting cagey about whether he wants to date a guy as he often did in the past. He’s not even worrying about his mountains of baggage from the island. Castiel’s spiel about the two of them not being broken really struck a chord with Dean. A good one.

After breakfast, Dean sets up the pressure washer Castiel rented, while Castiel covers vulnerable parts of the house with plastic and duct tape. Then Dean straps on an old pair of safety goggles and one section at a time, he soaks the house in detergent solution, lets it set for a few minutes, then blasts it with the pressure washer. It’s soothing, watching the detergent and the powerful stream of water clear away the dirt, mildew, and whatever else clinging to Castiel’s house. The house looks much better when the process is over, brighter, more cheerful, but the paint is still ugly. It definitely still needs to be painted.

Castiel vanishes while Dean is working on washing the back of the house, and when he’s finished Dean finds Castiel at the front, holding up his array of paint swatches and squinting.

“This one is called ‘Rest Assured’,” Castiel says as Dean approaches. He points to a shade of blue on the center of one of the swatches. “What do you think?”

It’s a nice shade of blue, certainly nicer than the moldy-concrete-gray color the house’s previous owner picked. “I don’t know,” Dean says. He points to a color two shades down, this one just a little brighter, a bit more saturated. “I think I like this one…” He moves Castiel’s thumb from over the color’s name, grimacing when he sees what it’s called. Well, then.

“O-open Seas?” Castiel says uncertainly.

“I couldn’t see the name, man…”

“It _is_ a lovely color,” Castiel says, holding up the swatch again and squinting some more. Dean wonders if squinting magically transposes the color onto the house in Castiel’s vision. “Perhaps Open Seas for the house, Blue Horizon for the trim, and…” Castiel flips back a few swatches. “Maybe Bungalow Beige for the porch?”

“Sounds good to me, but… be sure to sit on it for a few days before you buy the paint. That stuff ain’t cheap. Maybe ask your brothers and sisters about it.”

Castiel shakes his head, smiling. “If I give them the impression that I want their aesthetic input, they’ll swarm. Suddenly I’ll be repainting the interior of my house, and getting new furniture, and Lucifer will insist I use one of his shady business connections for a new bathtub, and it will become… a _thing._ ”

“I hear the weary voice of experience,” Dean says, grinning.

“My siblings are very Type A sorts of people.”

“Successful, outgoing, determined, insistent?”

“Everything I’m not,” Castiel says, frowning as his posture deflates slightly.

“Don’t you own this house?” Dean tries. “You’ve gotta be kind of successful to own your own house.”

Castiel casts a baleful glance in Dean’s direction. “I don’t own this house. This was Michael’s… _starter home_ before he married Ambriel and moved somewhere better. He was renting it to a woman who happened to move out at the same time my last relationship imploded, so… I moved here. I think some days he’s come close to gently forcing some upkeep on this place, so I imagine he was very excited when he learned you were tending to the house. Anyway, I can do whatever the hell I want to this place, but I certainly don’t actually _own_ it.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t own my own place either,” Dean says. “Even the tent is Sam’s, really. I mean he bought it.”

“You were on a deserted island for four years, I don’t think anyone expects you to have your life together.”

“Well I used to, but then some stuff happened, and now I don’t. Like you, right?”

Castiel sighs, looking down at his paint swatches. “I suppose.”

“Because we’re not broken, we’re scuffed,” Dean adds, nudging Castiel with his elbow.

Castiel smiles down at the ground. “That’s right.”

This is beside the point, but Dean has to say it. “So… _Michael_ picked this sewer-gray color we’re replacing?”

Castiel’s face splits into a much wider grin. “I’m afraid so.”

Dean looks back at the house. “Glad he won’t be storming the place to redecorate then, yuck.”

  


  


*

  


  


Dean’s bus back to Wichita is at four, so after Dean finishes with the pressure washer they decide to stop for the day. Dean makes them pasta carbonara for lunch, heart thrumming with how damn _pleased_ Castiel looks as he wolfs down his meal.

After that, Castiel drives Dean to the bus station. There is a truly uncomfortable moment where Castiel hands Dean an envelope with his payment for the weekend, and Dean gets sort of a weird feeling that he’d describe as “hooker-ish”. After that, they say their goodbyes and their see-you-soons, and then Dean is on the long bus ride back to Kansas.

  


  


*

  


“Sooooo,” Sam says as he pulls his car out of the bus station’s parking lot, “how did it go?”

“Pretty good,” Dean says. Fuck, he’s fucking tired.

“Get a lot of stuff done?”

“Yeah, checked a bunch of shit off the list I made… but there’s still a handful of things left.”

“So you didn’t get to do _everything_ you wanted to do this weekend.”

Dean’s really, really tired, so it takes him longer than it should to catch the tone in Sam’s voice. “Wait… are you being an asshole right now?”

“What, I’m just asking about your weekend with _Castiel_ ,” Sam says in an obnoxious sing-song voice that Dean hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

“Ugh, Sam, I am too tired for this shit,” Dean groans.

“Struck out, huh?”

“There was no striking out, there was nothing _to_ strike out, okay? We just… we hung out, I fixed some shit, cooked some food, that’s it. Half the time he was on his couch playing fucking World of Warcraft, okay, nothing exciting happened.” That’s a lie, but Dean’s way too tired and cranky to deal with the teasing he’d get if he mentioned holding Castiel’s hand.

“World of Warcraft? Really? What does he play as? What server is he on? Did you ask him what he thinks of the latest patch, because—”

“Sam.”

“Sorry. Right. You don’t play. You should. I mean two of your favorite people play it, seems like a good reason to start.”

“Who says he’s one of my favorite people?”

“Just guessing.”

“Yeah, well whatever, I’m still not playing.”

“I’ll pay for the game myself!”

“ _No, Sam._ ”

 


	13. Chapter 13

(Monday)

  
  


  
  


“So, there’s this thing I want to talk about, I guess.”

Henriksen looks up from his notebook, eyebrows raised. They’ve mostly been talking about Dean’s week, how he felt interacting with Castiel, whether or not computer games are something Dean should take up as a distraction, how he feels when people recognize him.

“By all means, Dean.”

“So, you remember me mentioning Bobby?”

Henriksen looks upward for a moment, thinking. “Sort of a surrogate uncle, right? Part of the extended family you’ve been avoiding?”

Dean sinks in his chair a little. “Yeah. His birthday’s on Wednesday, and he’s having this party, and everyone really wants me to go.”

Henriksen nods, flipping to a new page and scribbling some more. “Are you going?”

“I don’t really want to. I feel like it’s going to be like every time I’ve seen them since I got back, where no one really knows how to act around me, and I can’t really tell them _how_ to act around me because I don’t fucking know either. I don’t know how to act either.”

Henriksen’s writing faster, but Dean knows he’s listening.

“I think about the guy I used to be, and I can describe him, I can picture him, you know? Brash, funny if I do say so myself, commitment issues, dead mom issues… loving, kind of a dick sometimes. That’s how I’d describe him. I know him, I remember him, but I’m not sure how much I connect to him. And those pieces are all still there, but there’s all these new pieces too, and they form a completely new and different picture.” Dean sighs. “I want to be the guy they remember, the guy I remember, but I can’t do that without pretending, and I don’t want to pretend.”

Henriksen taps his pen against the pad rapidly. He does that when he’s not sure how to word something, when he’s trying to rearrange his gut reaction into a therapist-style response.

“Just say what you’re thinking, man,” Dean begs.

Henriksen. “I can do that. I think you, at some point— and I’m not saying it needs to be this Wednesday or even this _month_ , I think you need to give the people that matter to you an opportunity to get to know you as you are.”

Dean’s staring down at his hands, but he nods. “I know. I’m scared, though. It’s not like I’m afraid they’ll stop loving me, I just… hate the idea of letting them down by not being who they used to know.”

“I want to tell you that it’ll be fine, but you know I can’t promise—”

“I know.”

“But I can tell you that even if things go poorly, or uncomfortably, or—”

“Soul-suckingly-awkward?”

“Or ‘soul-suckingly-awkward’, you are a strong man, and I believe you will make it through. You have a lot of tools at your disposal, Dean. Things we’ve discussed here, medication, leaning on your brother, and you can always check in with my office for same day appointments. If you happened to go to that party Wednesday and found yourself not wanting to wait until the following Monday for your next appointment. Hypothetically.”

Dean chuckles. “Right,” he says. “Hypothetically.”

  
  


*

(Wednesday)

  
  


  
  


“I think it’s gonna go well, Dean. I really do, and if not, we can get drunk!” Sam’s over-chatty as he drives them to Bobby’s house in southwest Wichita.

“Uh, I took some Xanax like ten minutes before we left so I actually can’t drink tonight. And you’re my ride, so I hope _you’re_ not getting drunk.”

Sam pouts for a moment, then smiles. “Still, we’re gonna have a good time, I can feel it.” He glances at Dean. “But if you’re not feeling this… it’s not too late to turn around, Dean.”

“I just keep telling myself that I did okay at Castiel’s all weekend, and if I can do that, I can do this.”

“Yeah, well, seeing family isn’t the same as seeing a guy you definitely don’t have a big crush on.”

“Is this you being helpful?” Dean barks.

Sam shrugs. “Yes.”

“Jackass.”

“I think you can do this. And we don’t have to stay late, it’s a weeknight anyway. If it gets to be too much for you, just give me a signal, and I’ll start going on about work in the morning and how we gotta get home.”

“A signal, huh?” Dean says, smiling a little. “Like a code word?”

“Sure!”

“Okay, what’s the code word?”

Sam’s quiet for almost a full minute before he finally says, “KOALAS!”

“Koalas.”

“Koalas!”

“ _Koalas_?”

“What, no good?”

“How'd you land on fucking koalas?”

“Well, I started thinking about—”

“Nevermind, I don’t care.”

  
  


*

  
  


It’s hard.

Everyone is so happy to see him, and they do their best to act “normal”, but that awkwardness is definitely still there. When Dean rolls up the sleeves of his henley and catches Garth staring at the scar on his wrist. When Dean gazes too long at a photo of a palm tree on the cover of one of Bobby’s magazines in the middle of a conversation. When Jo and Benny reminisce with Dean about an event they expect him to remember until they belatedly realize it took place while he was presumed dead. When Jody pulls him aside to apologize for crying the last time they saw each other.

After an hour Dean excuses himself to the backyard, where Bobby is smiling to himself and turning his array of well-seared steaks over. It’s Bobby’s party, but him being absent for huge chunks of it is no surprise.

“Thought I’d see you out here eventually,” Bobby grunts.

“Think they’re getting hungry in there.”

“They’ll wait and thank me for the privilege. Glad you came, boy,” Bobby says in what passes for a warm tone.

“I’ve been uh… socializing some on weekends, thought maybe I’d give this a shot. Brought you something.”

“Present, huh?” Bobby hates presents, but he’s not going to turn down a gift from his long lost surrogate nephew, and they both know it.

“Don’t get excited,” Dean says, handing over the wrapped package.

Bobby eyes Dean suspiciously, but he peels open the wrapping paper, smiling when he sees the little man Dean made with nothing but paper clips and a pair of pliers. It’s not much at all, just something Dean used to do when he was a kid. Bobby probably has a junk drawer full of these fucking things because the old man never throws anything away.

Bobby grunts again, slipping the paper clip man into the pocket of his worn, grey flannel overshirt. He turns away under the pretense of futzing with the grill, but Dean hears the faintest of sniffles coming from Bobby’s direction.

He smiles.

It’s hard, but Dean’s glad he came.

  
  


*

(Thursday)

  
  


“Can you go shopping with me?”

Sam drops and breaks his fucking coffee mug, which… Jesus fucking Christ, it’s not that serious. “You want me to take you shopping?” Sam says, already snatching a roll of paper towels off the top of the fridge.

“I just uh… want to get some new stuff with my money... clothes... and uh… I mean I know I could ask Jo, but I’m not really _there_ yet, and it’d be good to have a second opinion and uh you know an emotional buffer?”

“Yeah, Dean of course, of course!” Sam’s doing that thing where he’s getting way too excited about the prospect of spending time with Dean. It makes Dean feel oddly guilty. “What made you want new clothes?”

Dean crouches to pick the mocha-scented shards of glass from the kitchen floor. “Just… you know, thought it’d be cool to have some new stuff.” Obviously in the time Dean was gone, much of his stuff ended up in the trash, or donated to charity, or in that fucking coffin. Most of what he wears now are things of his that got mixed in with Sam’s stuff and never got tossed out, or things that _are_ Sam’s. Part of the reason nothing really fits him.

Sam pauses in cleaning, looking up at Dean with too-keen eyes. Dean knows he’s looking at Dean, wondering just what, or _who_ would have Dean wanting new clothes. God damn little brothers.

“Don’t,” Dean warns. “This isn’t— I just—”

“Hey, hey. It’s fine, don’t get upset, I wasn’t saying anything,” Sam insists. “Of course I’ll come shopping with you. We could go to the mall after work? Or Target?”

“Target, I don’t need anything _fancy,_ I just want some stuff that looks… uh. Normal. Decent.”

“Stuff that hugs your body in an appealing way?” Sam says.

“ _Sam_.”

“I’m dropping it, I’m dropping it!”

  
  


*

  
  


The trip to Target goes pretty well. Sam is what Henriksen referred to as a “safe person”, meaning Dean can be around him easily, and often having Sam around makes it easier for Dean to be around others. Dean had been a little confused by the concept until Henriksen said it was “like a therapy dog, but with people”, and now sometimes Dean jokes about getting Sam one of those therapy dog vests.

Dean doesn’t really get anything different than he would normally get, a couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts that are on sale, a couple of henleys, a pair of boots, some boxers, boxer-briefs, socks, a few plaid shirts… it ends up costing quite a bit and Sam is _enthusiastic_ about helping Dean pay what he can’t cover. Sam is fucking weird. Dean gets it though, he does. Dean’s back, and the “novelty” hasn’t exactly worn off. Sam’s excited to have his brother back, and Dean understands, which is why he lets Sam talk him into going out to dinner after they’re done shopping. And a movie after dinner. And then they go out to play pool and have rumless Rum-and-Cokes.

“Dinner, a movie, now drinks. So are we on a fucking date, or what?” Dean says when Sam hands him his soda.

Sam wrinkles his nose. “Don’t make it weird, jeez.”

“I mean you’re cute and all, but I’m not putting out for burgers and a buddy cop movie,” Dean says, grinning.

“That’s _right,_ honey,” a drunk woman at the next pool table calls out, “you make him _work_ for it! You’re worth it!”

“We’re _brothers,_ ” Sam whines, but the woman is too busy rummaging for something in her bra to notice.

“This _is_ the first date you’ve been on since I got back,” Dean says, kind of joking, but also not joking at all.

Sam shrugs. “Just haven’t met anyone I’m into since things with Ruby imploded.”

“I uh…” Dean starts, smile slipping from his face entirely, “I don’t suppose you’re ready to talk about that yet…”

“It’s a bummer, and it’s over, there’s no point in going over it.”

Dean shakes his head. “There kind of _is,_ Sam.” Sam frowns, confused, like he genuinely doesn’t get it. “I was gone, and when I came back your entire _life_ had changed and I still don’t know why. I know sometimes I’m not good at… _talking,_ and zone out or startle or whatever, but… I’m still your brother. There’s a lot of missing pieces of information, I just want some of it filled in.”

Sam sighs, but nods. “Okay, but we gotta go home for this conversation.”

“Why?”

“So I can get a little drunk.”

  
  


*

  
  


They’re back home, Sam’s halfway through his first beer, and Dean’s sipping gingerly at a light beer because he’s not sure if he has any meds sitting in his system. He probably wouldn’t have worried so much about mixing alcohol and medication before the island, but these days his substance tolerance is pretty pathetic. They’re in Sam’s room, sitting in bed in their pajamas like they’re kids again. But with beer.

“So, here’s the thing. At the time, I took your… disappearance pretty well. I think because it was so drawn out? I had hope, hope, hope, and then one day I realized that hope had been replaced with mourning. It wasn’t a huge shock to my system like it would have been if they’d found your body, you know?”

Dean’s not totally sure he _does_ know, but he nods.

Sam takes this long, shaky breath, and Dean doesn’t like that he looks almost afraid as he continues talking. “At least that’s what I thought. I thought I handled it well, but I was a ticking time bomb and didn’t even know it. Then Dad died, and I started doing a lot of dumb shit. Like marrying Ruby, and getting in bar fights, gambling, and a shit fucking ton of cocaine.”

Dean almost drops his beer at that.

“This is fucking Kansas, it’s a miracle I didn’t get arrested for all the shit I pulled,” Sam says, shaking his head in annoyance. “Got fired for my erratic behavior, of course. Rock bottom was when I cheated on Ruby, though. I know we weren’t perfect together, but she was _there_ for me,” Sam says wistfully, staring at his beer with tear-rimmed eyes. “But uh… she doesn’t have patience for cheating, obviously, so that was kind of it. We divorced, she moved to Nebraska, I kicked the coke habit, spent a few months in therapy, got a job in IT, slowly pieced together a new life... and then you came back.” Sam takes a long drink. “And maybe I begged everyone we know not to tell you about how I’d leveled my old life while you were gone.”

“Sam…”

“Come on, don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same. And you know… at first I told myself I was hiding it because you’d had enough bad news, but… the truth is I just didn’t want to let you down, Dean.”

“Well… you didn’t let me down, man. Grief is…” Dean sighs. “It’s _grief_. Yeah, if I’d been here I would have busted your balls about all that shit, but I _wasn’t_ here, that’s the point.”

Sam looks at Dean with his big, dumb, puppy dog eyes. “You mean that?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “More than that. Yeah, you spiraled bad, hit rock bottom, but you also came back. You’ve got a house, a steady job, a group of geeks you hang out with on weekends…”

“You should meet Charlie, you’d really like her.”

“Point is, you did good. I’d even say I’m proud of you.”

The tears building in Sam’s eyes finally start to break free, and when Dean offers Sam a sedative he just laughs and pulls Dean into a bone-crushing hug.

  
  


 


	14. Chapter 14

(Friday)

  
  


  
  


Sam is sober and once again alarmingly chipper as he drives Dean to the bus station at three in the morning. He asks Dean if he packed all his new clothes like he’s Dean’s fucking mom, yammers on about how cool it is that Dean’s fixing up Castiel’s house, and maybe they should fix up Sam’s house sometime soon. Dean actually likes that idea, but there’s no point in saying that now; Sam’s unlikely to absorb any information while he’s this stream of chatty consciousness. He thanks Dean _three times_ for their conversation earlier that night, and Dean’s a bit guilty that he’s a little relieved to get away from the massive waves of emotion Sam is pouring on him.

It’s just a lot.

But he’s still glad they talked, and he’s still really glad that he asked about what went down. Knowing Sam, he’s probably been angsting about telling Dean since the moment Dean touched down in Kansas. It feels good knowing his little brother lost a burden tonight, and Dean helped lift it.

He was a ghost for so many years, he affected no one and nothing other than his little corner of the island and the sea creatures he killed for meals. Now that he’s back, sometimes it blows him away that he can talk to a person and have an effect on them. Talking to Sam about his divorce, bringing Gabriel’s package to Castiel, even making Jody burst into tears that one time. He’s not just some unbalanced asshole arguing with chess pieces anymore, he’s a person interacting with other people.

It’s a fact that comforts him at some times, frightens him at others.

Today, he’s finding it comforting.

  
  


*

  
  


“You look… tired, but happy,” Castiel says when Dean finds him in the bus station lobby.

“I _feel_ tired but happy,” Dean says, exhausted. “Had a good Thursday with my brother, guess that feeling is still sticking with me even after a long-ass bus ride.”

“I’m glad.” Castiel takes Dean’s bag like last time and they head toward the parking lot.

“Been a pretty active week for me, actually. Therapy Monday and Wednesday, a party Wednesday night, shopping and dinner and a movie with my brother yesterday… that’s pretty active for me.”

“Are you doing okay? A surge in social activity can cause… uh, emotional drawbacks sometimes.”

“You speaking from experience, Cas?”

Castiel nods, looking uncomfortable as he opens up the car. “I am.”

“Well… I feel okay right now, but sometimes I kind of… crash after too much social shit, so we’ll see. Don’t worry, though. I’ve got my handy mobile pharmacy in my bag,” Dean says, grinning.

“I’m glad you’re prepared, I would hate to have to share my stash.”

God, it’s weird joking about _anxiety meds_ with someone. That wasn’t ever something people Dean knew talked about, before. Anxiety in general wasn’t something people Dean knew talked about, it certainly wasn’t something Dean thought about before. No one back home is on medication for depression or anxiety.

At least as far as he knows.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Castiel says once they’re on the road, “but I made… plans for tonight, since I assumed you’ll be sleeping.”

Dean feels a sad little curl of jealousy wind around him before it dawns on him what Castiel probably means by “plans”. “Do you mean… World of Warcraft plans?”

“Big raid,” Castiel says.

Jesus fucking Christ, this guy is precious. “A raid, huh? You gonna take down the big boss and kick his ass with your uh… troll… magic…?” Dean tries.

“I’m a Night Elf druid,” Castiel says matter-of-factly. “Well, I do have a Troll shaman on another server, but I don’t do raids with her.” He looks over at Dean, expression a bit embarrassed.

Dean shrugs. “Remember what I said before, Cas. After the chess piece thing, I’m in no position to judge how someone else has their fun. I told my brother that you play the game and he started asking what server you play on and telling me I should join too. He’s like those missionaries that used to come to our door when I was a kid with pamphlets about Jesus… he’s uh... shit… what’s the word?”

“Proselytizing,” Castiel says, smiling a little.

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling out the window. “That.”

“Do you think you’ll give it a try? You know, they offer free trials.”

Dean rolls his eyes a little. “Tell you what, Cas, after I finish fixing up your real house, I’ll consider fixing up your World of Warcraft house.”

“We don’t have _houses_ in World of Warcraft, Dean.” Castiel sounds so offended, and it’s the tone of his voice mixed with Dean being slightly exhausted that has Dean laughing so hard they have to stop at a gas station so Dean can pee.

  
  


*

  
  


Dean can’t sleep.

He’d assured Castiel that he was tired enough to crash indoors tonight, so Castiel is “raiding” in his bedroom while Dean is _supposed_ to be sleeping on the couch. He decides to quietly make his way out to the backyard, and he snorts when he sees what’s waiting for him. An inflated air mattress with a sleeping bag and a pillow, made up like a bed, an upturned box serving as an end table with a small stack of magazines and a flashlight on top. Dean smiles, flicking off the light on the back of the house and heading to the “bed”.

The air mattress is more comfortable than Dean expected. It must be pretty good quality, Dean used to have an air mattress and his ass always seemed to touch the ground no matter how much air he put in the damn thing. He’s a little worried it’s going to be the kind of comfortable that stops him from falling asleep, but even as he thinks that he can feel himself drifting. Being outside helps, Dean thinks. It’s not a cave near the ocean, it’s not a tent in his brother’s backyard, but it’s outside. Maybe some day Dean really can do away with the “outside” component as well.

Definitely not today, but some day.

  
  


*

  
  


Dean sleeps through the night, and nothing aches, he’s not groggy from sleeping pills, and he feels fucking _refreshed._ So refreshed he just lies there for a while, smiling.

Castiel, however, looks decidedly less refreshed.

When Dean comes in through the back door, Castiel is seated at the kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee tighter than Dean held onto that damn life raft in the ocean. His hair is in disarray, there are dark circles under his eyes, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed Dean walking in and standing next to him.

“Rough night?” Dean asks, and Castiel jolts so strongly that coffee sloshes onto his knuckles. The coffee must not be very hot, because Castiel doesn’t really react to it being on his bare hands. “What the hell _happened_ last night?”

“I uh…” Castiel blinks several times, then looks up at Dean. “Forgot to sleep.”

“Is the game really _that_ interesting?” Dean says, dabbing at Castiel’s hand with a wash cloth.

“Sometimes,” Castiel says, sighing. “But even when it’s not interesting, it can be engrossing… and it’s the weekend.”

“So you had a good time?”

Castiel smiles at Dean. “I think so. It all turned into a blur, I have no idea what I was doing all night, honestly.”

“And here we are, with a day of painting in front of us, and you haven’t slept at all.”

Castiel looks a bit guilty at that. “Just need to perk up with this coffee… that I made yesterday.”

“Gross. How about I make a breakfast with a long cooking time and you go take a nap?” Dean says, pulling the coffee mug away from Castiel’s hands.

“I could do that…” Castiel’s already drifting back towards his bedroom, yawning loudly as he goes.

  
  


*

  
  


Dean makes breakfast, but when he peeks into Castiel’s room, sees him sprawled out on his back with his mouth hanging open, he can’t bring himself to wake the poor guy up. Instead he eats a helping of the breakfast casserole he threw together and then he goes out to fix Castiel’s bike.

The bike, as it turns out, is not actually fixable, not without getting several parts. Dean had been hoping he’d just have to deal with some rust and hammering out the bent wheel, but the thing is a mess of rust and whatever the hell damage was sustained when Castiel got hit by that car. A quick internet search on his phone tells Dean that the cost of fixing the bike will far outweigh the price of the bike itself. It sucks, but at least Castiel doesn’t _need_ the bike.

Dean is just deciding on whether any part of the damn bike is worth salvaging when Castiel comes out the front door. He looks slightly more put together, but still tired. Castiel can’t have been sleeping more than two hours.

“This thing is shot,” Dean says, gesturing at the mangled lump of metal on the grass in front of him.

“I assumed so,” Castiel says, yawning.

“Hey, if you’re still tired, why not get some more sleep?”

Castiel shakes his head. “That will destroy my sleeping schedule. I’ve made that mistake before. Slept all day on a Saturday, and come Sunday night I couldn’t get to sleep, which left me tired and agitated at work the next day.”

Dean smirks. “Yeah, I’ve seen Sammy do that quite a few times, that game is a menace.”

Castiel shrugs. “It passes the time.”

Dean’s about to suggest they get started on painting the house when he notices Castiel staring at his hands… no, his arms, where the sleeves of his henley are rolled up, exposing the long, gnarled scar along his left arm.

Ah.

Yeah, that’s an eyecatcher for sure. Dean’s more comfortable in long sleeves when he’s out of the house; a henley, or his father’s leather jacket, but he’s gotten so comfortable here he forgot to even worry about hiding it. He wonders if Castiel will say something. He knows it’s upsetting to see, Sam even cried at the sight of it one night, but he was pretty drunk.

Castiel just shakes his head abruptly, like Dean does when he’s trying to kill a train of thought. He rubs his eyes and smiles at Dean.

“I’m ready to paint if you are,” he says. “I went with the colors I chose last weekend. I was having a lot of trouble settling on the colors, but my sister Rachel was kind enough to remind me that I can always paint over it in the future.”

“Alright, well let’s trash this fucking bike and get the paint primer out, yeah?”

Castiel does what Dean thinks is his version of an enthusiastic fist pump. It comes off looking awkward and half-assed though, which makes it even better, in Dean’s opinion.

  
  


*

  
  


The colors they use are nice, and despite the name “Ocean Seas” the blue they chose for the house is more of a sky blue, bright and pure and so cheerful compared to the dingy gray color they’re covering up. After the primer sets, Dean and Castiel spend the day painting every inch of the house and porch and the backyard fence. Dean has a good time painting the house with Castiel, though Castiel is apparently pretty fucking terrible with a paintbrush. Dean didn’t know it was possible to be _bad_ with a paintbrush, but life is full of little surprises. He sometimes has to go over Castiel’s strokes with his own brush to ensure the paint coats evenly, and after an hour he actually stops to explain to Castiel what he’s doing wrong and how to wield the brush properly.

There’s a moment when Dean is twisting the brush in Castiel’s hand, showing him the right angle to hold it, and there’s a little tingle, a _spark_ where their fingers are touching. Static electricity without the static. Dean looks at Castiel, and Castiel stares at Dean, and then they both let the moment fall away and continue painting, just like that.

Something is building between them, building fast. It’s a little scary, it’s not as though Dean’s had feelings for someone recently. And Castiel is… new. Important. Someone Dean wants to keep around. He’s already thought about introducing Castiel to Sam, they’d probably have a lot in common, like World of Warcraft, and being functioning members of society… fuck what if Castiel likes Sam better? Is he going to have to compete with Sam for Castiel’s fucking attention?

There’s this thing Dean does sometimes, his mind goes off on a tangent, and sometimes the only way he can stop it is to realize it’s happening and give himself a smack in the face. He does that now, realizing too late that he has a paintbrush in his hand. He can feel the paint sticking to his forehead and cheek as soon as he moves his hand away. He grimaces, slowly looking over at Castiel, who’s staring back and looking absolutely mystified.

“Why in the world did you do that? Bug?” Castiel says, looking around.

“Just uh… shaking some cobwebs loose in my brain,” Dean says awkwardly.

“Mhmm,” Castiel replies. “Next time you ‘shake cobwebs loose’, make sure your hand is empty.”

Dean glares and taps a nearby area with his paintbrush. “You missed a spot.”

  
  


*

  
  


They’re both exhausted and sore by the end of the day, but the porch and house are painted, and everything on Dean’s list is crossed off, aside from the bike. Dean and Castiel are both too tired to cook, so they order a pizza and stand out front waiting so the pizza man doesn’t step on the not-quite-dry front porch, then quickly tear through half the pizza in a matter of minutes.

Dean thinks he could probably sleep on the couch, but he doesn’t want to waste an hour trying to find out, so he bids Castiel goodnight and heads out to the air mattress still waiting in the backyard. He spends a minute or two getting settled under the glow of the “bedside” flashlight; taking off his boots, shaking dry foliage off the blanket, then he lies on his back and closes his eyes.

Time passes, but not very much. Dean’s drifting, listening to the sounds of a late Illinois evening when he hears the sound of the back door opening and footsteps coming closer.

Dean opens his eyes, turning his head to look up at Castiel.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

Castiel shrugs. Dean can see something in his expression, though it’s hard to be sure in this light. He thinks he sees something like fear, though. Maybe sadness.

“I was just thinking about how you’ve completed your tasks here, and wondering what comes next, and I… I guess I wanted to see you.”

Dean feels like something’s lodged in his throat. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want this to end, just because you’ve crossed off everything on your list.”

“It doesn’t have to be the _end_ , Cas. We can… we don’t…” Dean sighs. “It doesn’t mean I’m just gonna go away. We're just getting started.”

Castiel sighs in obvious relief, and Dean’s _almost_ offended. “Good,” Castiel says, “I didn’t want to spend all night concerned over our budding friendship, I suppose.”

He starts to head back inside, and Dean mutters “Cas,” so softly he barely hears it himself. Castiel stops though, and turns back around.

Dean doesn’t know what to say.

He scoots to the side, making room on the air mattress. It’s probably an awkward way to ask a question, but he’s not sure what will come out of his mouth if he tries talking again. When Castiel joins him, Dean’s entire body relaxes. Castiel lies on his back next to Dean, the air mattress dipping more with their combined weight.

They lie there, hands joined between them, and it’s all Dean needs to fall asleep.

  
  


 


	15. Chapter 15

When he wakes up, they’re not holding hands anymore, but Castiel is lying on his side, watching him. There’s a lot of emotion in his eyes that Dean can’t decipher. He’s so fucking bad at reading people these days. He can still read Sam pretty well, but he had nearly twenty-six years to learn him. Castiel’s new, and Dean doesn’t “get” people like he used to. His eyes dart down for a split second, to Dean’s mouth, maybe.

Oh.

Okay, Dean can read that.

He rolls onto his side, and lifts an arm slowly, giving Castiel a chance to react, to back away, something. He doesn’t, and Dean curls his fingers around the back of Castiel’s neck, tugging Castiel forward as gently as he can.

“Okay?” Dean says, so quietly he can barely hear himself.

Castiel nods once, and moves closer until their lips are touching. For a fraction of a moment, Dean worries that he doesn’t know how to do this anymore, but instinct and muscle memory take over, and there’s a kiss, a real eyes-closed-gentle-sighing kiss. Castiel is tender, maybe even careful as his lips move against Dean’s, and they inch their way closer to one another until they’re in each other’s arms.

Dean spent a long, long time without human contact on the island. He forgot what it was like to kiss someone, to be held by friend or lover, skin touching skin. Even now, he’s still a bit touch starved. He doesn’t like when people get too close, mostly he won’t hug anyone other than Sam, and if someone’s touching him these days it’s probably a doctor or a dentist. So this? Castiel lightly pressed against him, tongue barely flirting with Dean’s lips, fingers clutching Dean’s jacket collar? Awesome.

This feels good, this feels _so_ good. It feels like the shower Dean took at the embassy in Thailand, his first cheeseburger when he got back to America, smelling Sam’s coconut-lime body wash for the first time in four years. He wants more of it, he can’t help but want more of it. His hand is gripping Castiel’s short strands of hair as he rolls onto his back, pulling Castiel on top of himself. Castiel lets out a little moan into Dean’s mouth and pulls back, staring at him with wide eyes.

“This is… okay?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Dean mutters, rolling his hips up just barely against Castiel’s.

“You never know,” Castiel whispers, “consent is important.” It’s not an inherently sexy statement, but Castiel’s voice is low and rough with sleep and arousal, and Dean’s definitely thickening in his jeans.

“I consent to whatever it is we’re doing or about to do,” Dean says, shuddering when Castiel starts kissing along his jaw.

“Wonderful news,” Castiel mutters. “Let me know if anything changes.” He braces himself over Dean, reaching for the button on Dean’s jeans. The sleeping bag they’re still under is hiding them both from view, but anyone looking would know exactly what’s going on. Dean doesn’t love that idea, but whatever, he doesn’t live here, and Castiel’s fence is pretty high.

Castiel gets Dean’s jeans open, and Dean’s entire body jolts when he feels Castiel’s hand over his growing erection, only a layer of cotton between them. He’s not totally sure what Castiel has in mind, but he figures he can only help the proceedings by reaching forward to pull down Castiel’s flannel pajama pants. He watches as he does so, and his face splits into a grin.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Castiel says, looking down.

“Sorry, it’s just… your underwear is _really_ orange,” Dean says, flicking a finger against the offensively orange boxer briefs clinging to Castiel’s hips. “What do you call this color?”

“Pumpkin?”

“No way, this is way more orange than that. This is prescription bottle orange, I feel like if I reach inside I’m going to come back with a handful of Xanax.”

“I assure you, there are no sedatives in my underwear, Dean.”

Dean smirks. “Guess I’d better find out for sure.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I had no idea you were so corny,” he says, rubbing Dean through his boxers. “Anything else I should know about you before we do this?”

“I cried while watching Pretty Woman. At the end, when Richard Gere shows up to whisk Julia Roberts away. I guess I should be up front about that before we do anything.”

Castiel huffs out a small laugh, resting his forehead against Dean’s. “In the interest of maintaining an equal footing, I should tell you that I cried watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.”

“The Kate Hudson movie?!”

“In my defense, I had _just_ broken up with my ex.”

“Wow, Cas, that’s… I mean Pretty Woman is one thing, but I’m not sure…” Dean lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Okay, I can handle this. Thank you for being up front with me.”

“Transparency is important,” Castiel says solemnly. His hand rubs up against Dean’s cock with more intent, and he smiles when Dean whimpers a little.

“Yeah, yeah transparency is good,” Dean says, shuddering when Castiel works a hand inside his boxers. Castiel’s hand is firm as it grips Dean, thumb teasing at his cockhead. Dean can feel Castiel’s smearing precome along the flared head, and he wants… fuck, he wants a lot of things that they can’t really do while lying in a backyard with no condoms or lube in sight. He lets Castiel work him for a minute, maybe two, before he pushes the ugly orange underwear down and gets his hands on what is apparently a wonderfully firm ass.

“Okay,” Castiel says, though Dean has no idea what he’s okaying. He lets go of Dean’s dick to start pulling Dean’s pants and boxers down. Dean lifts his hips to make it easier, and he yelps a little when his ass lowers and touches the mattress. “Everything alright?”

“My ass is cold,” Dean says. He starts to pull Castiel down on top of him, but Castiel doesn’t budge.

“We could go inside, if you want?”

Tempting. There might be lube inside. Or condoms. Or both. “Nah,” Dean says. “We started this out here, I wanna finish it out here.”

“And how will we be finishing it?”

Dean brings their lips together, tongue slipping into Castiel’s mouth for a moment before he pulls back. “Like this,” he says, “just like this.” He pulls Castiel down so their bare cocks are touching, groaning quietly. Castiel has a nice dick, Dean has a feeling it would… or _will_ feel nice buried in his ass. For now, though, he ruts against Castiel, the drag of skin against skin making him shudder and tremble just a little. He kisses Castiel again and again, and each kiss is longer, deeper, dirtier than the last.

The more Castiel’s tongue rubs against his, the more Dean wants to get his pants all the way off so he can spread his legs wide, let Castiel right in. He can’t though, not without stopping to take his boots off, and that sounds like something that would take far too long. So he rocks up against Castiel, and Castiel does the same, still kissing Dean, making all sorts of incredible soft grunts and groans as they move together. Fuck it’s good, it’s so good, but Dean wants just a little more. He reaches down, making sure not to break their kiss, and he wraps a hand around them both, holding their cocks together tight.

“Oh, _oh,_ ” Castiel sighs, rolling his dick into Dean’s hand. Distantly, Dean can hear a garbage truck beeping and crunching, reminding him there’s a world out there, beyond the limits of this air mattress and sleeping bag, but he chooses to ignore it. He focuses on the warmth of Castiel’s skin, the slide of his tongue in Dean’s mouth, and the tension Dean can feel building in his own body.

They grind together in the grip of Dean’s hand until Dean feels like he might burst. Instead he comes, moaning into Castiel’s mouth, hips shaking and toes curled in his boots.

Castiel breaks their kiss to look down at Dean. “ _Yes,_ ” he hisses. Dean lets go of his own still twitching cock to take hold of Castiel’s, focusing on jacking him to completion. Castiel’s generally low and gritty voice gets higher and more desperate the closer he gets to orgasm, and Dean is greedy to hear more, clenching and twisting his hand with what little finesse he can muster until Castiel is crying out and coming all over Dean’s hips.

Castiel collapses over Dean like a marionette that’s had its strings cut. He’s heavy, but not too heavy. The air mattress dips so low Dean can feel the ground under his ass. They lie there for a few minutes, panting, a little sweaty, a little sticky and tacky.

“I suppose you can cross ‘cleaning pipes’ off your list,” Castiel says into Dean’s neck.

Dean laughs. “Did I just earn a bonus to my labor pay?”

Castiel kisses Dean’s neck. “I know you’re not from this area, but in Illinois it’s considered impolite to offer a man money for sexual favors after the fact.”

“Really? We do it all the time in Kansas. In fact, it’s considered rude _not_ to offer money after fooling around with someone.”

“Is that so? Then why aren’t you offering me money?”

“Guy on top pays, everyone knows that.”

Castiel nips at Dean’s neck. “You’re _ridiculous_.”

“And sweaty, you forgot sweaty.” Dean rubs a thumb against Castiel’s softening cock, and Castiel jolts and bites him again in retaliation.

“Alright, let’s get cleaned up,” Castiel says. “I have fluids drying in uncomfortable places, and I’m getting hungry.”

“Or we could cuddle just like this until we’re stuck together.”

Castiel groans. “Absolutely disgusting.”

  
  


 


	16. Chapter 16

They shower together, and Dean abruptly realizes that it’s been a really long time since someone’s seen him like this in a non-medical capacity. His body is so different from the one he had no problems with people seeing years ago. He’s leaner than he used to be, which isn’t so bad, but there are so many scars. Cuts and scrapes from falling out of trees, skinning his legs on rocks, that grisly cut running lengthwise along his left wrist. Dean doesn’t go out of his way to hide it, but since he usually has his father’s leather jacket on when he leaves the house, not many people have seen it.

Castiel once again takes notice of the scar as Dean is trying to scrub the come off his hips, and he goes still, taking Dean’s arm in his hands, and looking up at him with those god damn soulful blue eyes.

Dean doesn’t really know what to say. “It was hard out there,” he tries.

Castiel runs a thumb along the jagged scar. “Please don’t think you have to justify yourself to me, Dean. I know what… I know what it feels like to feel like you have no other options.”

“You do?” Dean asks, voice small. Castiel nods. Dean wants to ask, but he doesn’t. “It freaks me out, thinking how close I came to dying on that i-island. I never would have been found. No one would have ever even known that I survived the crash.” Dean shudders at the thought.

Castiel kisses his way up the scar on Dean’s arm, then kisses Dean on the cheek. “I’m glad you made it through.”

“Me too, Cas. Now let’s get out of here before I start crying or something,” Dean says, feeling a little too vulnerable.

“It’s a shower,” Castiel says. “If you cry, I won’t be able to tell.” Castiel wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him close.

And God help him, Dean fucking cries.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


  
  


“I was suicidal once.”

Dean freezes, completely caught off guard. They’re standing in Castiel’s room, towels wrapped around their waists. Castiel sits on his bed with a weary sigh and looks up at Dean.

“Yeah?” Dean says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I’ve been depressed since I was a teenager, but I didn’t fully realize it. It came on so slowly that I thought… I thought that’s just how life was. I cried a little more than other people I knew, and sometimes I just couldn’t get out of bed, but that became my version of normal. People told me I overreacted to things, that I was emotional, but no one ever said to me that I might be clinically depressed. Some days were good, some days were bad, that’s just how it was. But as I got older, some things got harder to deal with. Conflict at work, breakups, anniversaries of painful memories, things like that. I went from having ‘down days’ to ‘hopeless days’.”

Dean sits next to Castiel, taking his hand.

“I took my last breakup hard. Too hard. Almost ridiculously hard, I would say. It was frustrating because I wasn’t exactly irrevocably in love with him, and yet I was leveled by what happened between us. It didn’t make sense to me, all the moping I did over someone I probably would not have spent the rest of my life with. That’s when I went to my doctor, and said that I thought something might be wrong with me.”

Castiel leans against Dean, sighing. “I don’t know what specific medications you take, but the thing about anti-depressants is… sometimes it takes a while to find a good fit. And the medications that are a _bad_ fit, well… well in that case things can get worse before they get better.”

“They got worse for you.”

“They got much worse. My doctor started me off on Prozac, and I went from hopeless to suicidal. It was…” Castiel shudders. “It was bad, Dean. I knew it was the medication, I _knew_ that, but that didn’t help. I didn’t know if going off would make things better, or if I just needed to get acclimated to the pills… it was hell. I wanted out, I _wanted_ to die… I’ve never felt more hopeless in my entire life. That medication was supposed to help me, and instead it made everything worse. I really… I really thought I might end things.” Castiel gets this little smile then, and Dean feels the ache in his heart start to ease. Right. This is the past. “Then one day, Anna and Rachel came by, just to say hello. I’d internalized quite a bit of my struggle, they didn’t know I was getting worse. They were both excited about a story they’d read in the newspaper, about a man in Kansas who’d been thought dead after his plane crashed at sea years ago.”

Dean feels like his heart just stopped.

“They told me about how he was all alone on a relatively small island for four years, no companionship, no medical care, foraging for his own food… surviving against crushing odds. Rachel tossed the newspaper in the recycling before she left, but…” Castiel grabs his wallet from the nightstand and takes out a somewhat worn, folded piece of newspaper. He doesn’t bother to unfold it, just holds it up. “I kept it… and I’d look at it and think to myself ‘he got through all of that and made it home, I can make it through today’, every day. Eventually I got off the Prozac and got on Zoloft every day, and Xanax some days, a sleeping aid most nights, and that’s worked a lot better for me. But I’ve still kept that article. I don’t know if I would have truly gone all the way and killed myself; at the time it sure felt like I would… but I do know how much your story helped me hang on just a little longer.”

“I don’t know what to say, Cas…”

Castiel sits back down next to Dean. “In retrospect, it’s a little silly that I didn’t recognize you the instant I saw you.”

“So…” Dean says, drumming his fingers against his terrycloth covered thigh, “does this make you a fan?”

Castiel lets out a startled laugh and nudges Dean with his elbow. “No.”

“Damn. I’ve always wanted a hot groupie.”

“I hope this… I hope this doesn’t make things weird for you.”

“Why would it? I think it’s amazing, Cas.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that…”

Dean can’t believe he’s putting his Sappy Optimist hat on right now, but here he is. “You know how much hope that package gave me on the i-island… how it gave me reason to believe I had a future… it kept me hanging on. I think… dude I think it’s pretty cool that we had that impact on each other before we even met.”

Castiel smiles. “When you put it that way… I suppose it _is_ rather incredible.”

“If I was the romantic type, which I am _not,_ ” Dean says sternly, “that’s the kind of shit that would make me all starry eyed, if I do say so myself.”

“You seem like a bit of a romantic to me.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean grabs Castiel in a headlock and holds him tight so he can give him a noogie. Castiel flails his arms. “How’s that for romance?”

Castiel yanks himself free of Dean’s hold, glaring while he tries to smooth his hair into place. “I can’t believe you just did that. You know I haven’t received a _noogie_ since Gabriel left.”

“The important thing is you don’t think I’m a romantic.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “True. Now I think you’re a child.”

“I was never really a romantic before,” Dean says, settling. “I thought Valentine’s Day was for dopes, I’d never go see the sappy romantic shit my ex wanted to see, you know how it is.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I know how it is in theory.”

“Sometimes,” Dean says, deflating a little, “I think about the guy I used to be… and I wonder if I was kind of a dick. Kind of closed off, inflexible.”

“I’m not sure that makes you a _dick_.”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe. It’s hard to explain, since I’m not really that guy anymore, I’m… me.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about who you used to be, but I know I like you as you are now.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he pulls Castiel into a kiss.

  
  


  
  


 

*

  
  


  
  


Dean feels lighter than air as he bustles around Castiel’s kitchen, frying up bacon and slices of french toast. He supposes a good orgasm, a good cry, and a good shower can do wonders. Castiel doesn’t have a washing machine in his house and all of Dean’s clothes are dirty, so he’s wearing some of Castiel’s. A pair of faded jeans, a blue Marvin the Martian t-shirt, and a pair of comically orange briefs. Castiel for some reason owns a lot of orange underwear.

“So, it’s Sunday,” Dean says carefully.

“It is.”

“It’s Sunday, and I’ve finished everything on my list.”

“You have.”

Okay, Castiel’s not making this easy. “When can I see you again, Cas?”

“ _Oh,_ ” Castiel says, finally getting it. He reaches for a slice of bacon and makes a disappointed sound when Dean shoos his hand away.“As soon as possible? I realize there might be some things to work out now that I’m not _paying you_ to be here…”

Dean shrugs. “Hey that’s fine, there’s _always_ people on Craigslist looking to hire shifty loners like myself.”

“Or maybe…” Castiel’s hands flex once, sharply. It’s something Dean’s noticing happens when Castiel is nervous. “Maybe I could come see you? Driving is much cheaper, and I know you’re not exactly road-ready, but I am, and it would take half the time. If you’re interested. I could come out on Friday afternoon or Saturday morning, leave Sunday afternoon, and I wouldn’t miss any work.”

Dean grins at that. “So, you’ve given this some thought.”

“I woke up before you… my mind wandered.”

“Uh huh. You’re just anxious to see me again.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Castiel’s glaring, but there’s no anger in it.

“I think yes. If you’re cool sleeping in my brother’s backyard.”

“Sleeping outdoors is really starting to grow on me,” Castiel says with a shrug.

“Cool. Then… it’s a date. You can meet Sam! And then you two will probably bond over World of Warcraft and forget I’m there.”

“Oh my, I’m getting excited about this already.”

“Dick,” Dean says, grinning.

“You have a lovely smile,” Castiel says.

“Yeah?” Dean says, turning off the stove.

“Yes.”

Dean hands Castiel a piece of bacon. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Cas.”

Castiel grins at Dean as he munches on his piece of bacon, and Dean smiles right back.

  
  


 


	17. Epilogue

((Nineteen weeks post-rescue))

 

 

It’s not easy living over eight hours apart, but they make it work. For the next two or so months, Castiel is the one to come down to see Dean on the weekends. Aside from the week his niece is born, every Friday Castiel leaves right after work, and gets to Wichita in his sister’s car well after midnight, just so they can have all of Saturday together before he leaves again early Sunday afternoon. Dean feels a little guilty at times, like he’s not worth the effort, but when he brought this up to Henriksen, he’d said “Well, Castiel obviously doesn’t share your opinion, Dean.”

Sam and Castiel get along well, _of course._ They’re both geeks and Sam is weirdly into stationery, as it turns out. They even play on the same World of Warcraft server now, and they think Dean would really like the game if he would “ _just give it a chance, Dean!_ ”. Dean will probably buckle eventually, but for now he’d rather play games that require a little less emotional energy. Judging by the way Sam screams at his computer during raids, it is _not_ all that relaxed. Sometimes Castiel arrives well after midnight on Friday night, and then plays with Sam for hours instead of coming to bed with Dean. Dean would sulk, but he knows Castiel doesn’t really have many friends, and thinking about how well he gets along Sam makes Dean’s heart all gooey.

Castiel hasn’t met the rest of Dean’s extended family, but that’s only because Dean still doesn’t see them that much. He’s gotten to a place where he feels safe and at peace with Sam and Castiel, but incorporating other people is going to take some work. It’s hard, though. When he’s with Sam, or Castiel, or both, he feels _whole,_ and happy. When he’s around other people… not so much. He feels broken, he feels like an outcast, and he feels like everyone can tell.

It sucks, but he’s working on it. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is one’s mental health, as Henriksen said last week.

Castiel is doing well, but Gabriel is visiting in two weeks, and Dean can tell Castiel is nervous as hell about it by the way he freezes up and gets all awkward and mumbly whenever he brings it up. Castiel made Dean promise to be there for the visit, said he felt more at peace with Dean there.

That moment, that was incredible for Dean. He’s familiar with the concept of a safe person, obviously, he just never expected to be that for someone _else_.

It means a lot to him, knowing he makes someone he cares about feel safe, even if it’s a little hard to believe.

Dean’s sleeping indoors more now, though still not every night. Turns out the solution was pretty easy; nature sounds. Henriksen suggested a phone app that has sounds like “waves crashing” and “underwater” as options when Dean finally confessed his issues sleeping indoors. Dean can’t believe he didn’t think of it sooner, and Sam can’t believe _he_ didn’t think of it sooner. There are still nights where Dean retreats to the tent in Sam’s backyard, sometimes he needs to be outside for real and the gentle sounds of a cricket chirping or whatever else the relaxation app has just isn’t enough.

But honestly? Dean’s fine with it. It’s just a thing that happens sometimes, and Dean’s stopped feeling embarrassed about it for the most part. He’s got his own air mattress in there now, a rechargeable lantern, and decorations. The decorations were sort of a joke from Sam, he pinned some old posters up with safety pins on the tent walls, claiming Dean’s second room needed some sprucing up. An AC/DC poster, a kitten in a field of dandelions, and a poster from the second Avengers movie. It looks silly, but Dean left them up, and even added one of his own; a picture of Dean, Sam, and Castiel at Dean’s favorite pizza place. It’s not great quality, the photo was taken with Dean’s phone and printed on a color printer at Sam’s job, but it always makes Dean feel just a little lighter to look at it.

He’s looking at it now, actually. It’s Friday night… well, Saturday morning, technically, but the picture on the tent wall is well lit by Dean’s lantern. Sam and Castiel are inside battling Voldemort or Sauron or whoever the bad guy in World of Warcraft is, and Dean opted to come outside and relax, because it’s a heated battle and the two of them have been yelling into their headsets since Castiel got here. Annoying, but it’s the kind of shit Dean still looks at as a gift these days, because he spent four years having no one to be annoyed with.

The front panel of the tent is unzipped, and Castiel pokes his head in.

“Done already?” Dean says, surprised. He figured he’d be in here watching Netflix on his phone for hours, maybe even pass out before Castiel came in to sleep.

“We wiped,” Castiel says, a little bit of pout in his expression.

“Sam in there crying?”

Castiel clambers into the tent, zipping the panel closed behind him. “No, but I think he’s yelling at Kevin in team chat, so Kevin is probably crying.”

“I ever tell you guys it’s scary how intense you get about that game?”

Castiel shrugs, flopping onto the mattress so hard Dean’s surprised the thing doesn’t pop. “You should see Michael and Anna during the Super Bowl. Now _that_ is intense.”

Dean takes offense to that, he used to get pretty into the Super Bowl. “Yeah, but that’s _sports_ , this is a game.”

Castiel looks amused, which means Dean’s about to eat his words. “A game? And what, exactly, is football?”

Damn it. “It’s not the same!” Dean insists.

“Last Saturday you screamed at the TV when Dr. Sexy cheated on his girlfriend with the chief of surgery.”

Now Dean’s getting embarrassed. “I might have.”

“And it was an episode you’d already seen.”

“ _Look,_ Dr. Hamilton is _completely_ wrong for him, why would he choose her over Dr. Piccolo?! It’s a stupid storyline, Cas.”

Castiel leans over Dean, kissing the tip of his nose. “So, now that we’ve established that you and I both get enraged over trivial matters, I was hoping you would want to cheer me up, seeing as I have suffered a crushing defeat.”

“You don’t seem very sad to me,” Dean mutters as Castiel covers Dean’s body with his.

“Well, it used to be very, very sad to have all that work be for naught. All the planning, and teamwork, and all that ending in a defeat was always a bit crushing. But that was back before I had a gorgeous boyfriend to soothe the ache.” Castiel sounds so smug, it’s kind of turning Dean on. Or maybe that’s the friction he’s feeling from Castiel grinding his hips down.

“Oh, I get it,” Dean says, kissing his way down Castiel’s jaw, “I’m just a consolation prize at the end of a hard campaign.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel says, earnest. “You are also a victory prize when we win.”

Dean has a witty retort at the ready, but then Castiel is getting a hand in the waistband of Dean’s sweatpants and the snappy comeback leaves his mind, pushed aside by anticipation.

The next several minutes are a bit of a blur, Dean is coasting on arousal and unvoiced feelings of love, some clothes get pulled off, Dean somehow gets lube in his hair, and then he’s on his side, holding onto his pillow while Castiel rocks into him from behind, and Dean is moaning so loud he _knows_ Sam’s neighbors can hear.

“You know we’re outdoors,” Castiel pants, though he doesn’t slow the movement of his hips.

“Yeah,” Dean groans. He can feel _just_ the right pressure against his prostate. “I noticed.”

“You’re going to scandalize your neighbors.”

“They already think I’m weird,” Dean says.

Castiel is holding Dean’s right leg up for a better angle, and Dean’s thigh burns, and it’s hard to move enthusiastically because the air mattress isn’t as firm as a regular mattress, and Dean is still in heaven.

Sex with Castiel is always incredible. There’s a grace, a surety there that often doesn’t exist outside the bedroom… or tent, and although Dean has grown to truly love the sometimes awkward, emotional, and uncertain man that Castiel often is, he sure as shit enjoys the intense and confident version as well. Dean’s heart is already beating hard, his toes already curling and cramping. He always comes so fucking fast when he bottoms. Castiel knows it, too, and he chuckles into Dean’s hair as Dean’s moans start turning higher and lighter.

“You’re close,” he practically purrs.

“Am not,” Dean lies, gritting his teeth when Castiel’s hand circles his dick, “I could go like this for hours.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, thumb barely flirting with the wet head of Dean’s cock, “but if you’re wrong, you have to wear my most garish pair of orange underwear and I get to take a photo.”

That startles a laugh out of Dean, which inexplicably triggers his orgasm. He comes, whimpering and confused, making a mess on the sheets and almost immediately turning to jelly in Castiel’s arms.

“Keep going,” he mumbles, so Castiel does, sending warm, shuddering shocks of sensation through Dean’s body until Castiel comes into the thin layer of latex separating them.

It doesn’t take long for the world to come trickling back in once Dean’s had a moment to decompress. Sounds, tacky fluids drying on his body, the ache in his right thigh from holding that leg in the air, Castiel sliding out of him to dispose of the condom in an old grocery bag filled mostly with yard debris. Dean should probably have some tissues or something in here to clean up after sex but he doesn’t, so he cuddles up with Castiel under his sleeping bag, and things feel a little gross, but that’s life and Dean’s cool with it.

“So,” Dean says, two or twenty minutes later, he has no idea which, “you feel better now?”

“Feel better about what?” Castiel mumbles from behind him. He sounds confused.

“Guess that answers my question,” Dean says.

“Oh, the raid. Yes, I feel better now.”

“You think there’s any chance Sam _didn’t_ hear us?”

“No, not really. If he can’t look us in the eye tomorrow morning, we’ll know for sure.”

Dean flips over onto his other side so he can kiss Castiel. He has more that he wants to say, but it slips through his fingers and he gets lost in the tender press of Castiel’s lips against his.

A minute or two goes by and the kissing slows to a halt.

“I used to get homesick for the island,” Dean says almost involuntarily.

Castiel only has one eye open, but it looks concerned. “You did?”

“It was lonely, and it was hell, and I _always_ had sand somewhere on my body, but it was home for four years. I had a life of sorts back there, and for a long time it was weird to think that I’d never see it again.”

Castiel kisses Dean again, but doesn’t say anything. He’s told Dean again and again that sometimes he doesn’t know how to respond, but that he always, always wants Dean to say what’s on his mind, even if he has no immediate answer.

So, Dean keeps talking. “It’s messed up, but I figure it’s like how sometimes convicts miss prison when they get out, or when people have Stockholm syndrome. I don’t get that homesick feeling anymore, but sometimes… sometimes I wish I could show it to you. The dry bed of grass and giant leaves where I slept, the charcoal cave drawings, I even had a favorite tree.”

There’s a little fond smile from Castiel. “You had a favorite tree? Why was it your favorite?”

“It had a burn on one side. Don’t really know how it got there. I mean there were no other signs of people on the island, so I don’t know what could have caused it other than lightning, maybe. Anyway it was just a little different from the other trees, which made it interesting, so it was my favorite.”

Castiel kisses Dean again, hands skimming up and down Dean’s sides.

“Sometimes I wish I could show you all that. I wish I had pictures. It’s weird, but…” Dean trails off, unsure of what to say next.

“I don’t think it’s that weird to want people to have an accurate idea of your experience. Why else is there art in the world?”

“If I was a good artist, I’d paint it for you. Show you the burned tree, the rocks that were almost bright orange, all the little parts of the island I left behind.”

“You can tell me about it, though. I want to hear anything and everything you are willing to share, I promise.”

Dean kisses Castiel a little harder. He knows, but it’s good to hear it. “Alright… I ever tell you about the day I made my spear?”

Castiel burrows in closer until his head is tucked under Dean’s chin. “You haven’t,” he says, voice a soothing rumble Dean can feel against his neck and chest, “tell me about it.”

  
  


  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> SO, that's my story! I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading to the end. MERRY DCBB!!!


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